


The Devil's Strand

by Woad



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Espionage, Home Invasion, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, psuedo identity porn, soul mates who aren't literally soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woad/pseuds/Woad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1940. Steve Rogers just wants to serve his country, but with a dead man’s name on his wrist the army will never take him. Soulmate marks can be removed, but so-called cures have already landed Steve in debt with the wrong sort of people, and it's hard enough to make ends meet waiting tables.</p><p>With a bad heart, Tony Stark, a <i>capo</i> in his father's mob, never dreamed he would serve his country. But when a ship sinks under mysterious circumstances, a special division of Navy Intelligence calls on Tony for his connections. He's never liked the family business, but he thinks maybe, just this once, he can manage to use it for good.</p><p>They meet by chance one night, when Steve knows him as only "Tony." But after Steve is pulled into mob business and meets the <i>capo</i>, their relationship becomes much more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/gifts).



> This was inspired by [Wren's absolutely gorgeous art](http://stonypathoffandom.tumblr.com/post/144879855933/it-is-finally-done-i-am-so-overly-excited-this) and wonderful support during the brainstorming and writing. 
> 
> [Nostalgicatsea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgicatsea/pseuds/nostalgicatsea), "thanks" doesn't do justice to how grateful I am for your beta'ing. I owe you a ton for all your patience and comma wrangling!
> 
> This AU draws inspiration from the movies for Steve's home (I am always going to love him being from Brooklyn), but mostly draws inspiration from the comics elsewhere. They are by no means required reading though.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Since this deals with organized crime, I have called out warnings in the tags. Please do let me know if you think I have missed anything, though.

The air is hot, and the smell of garlic and onion is still heavy in the air even though the omnipresent sizzle of steam and frying oil quieted for the night nearly an hour ago. The tinny sound of jazz floats out from the kitchen as the staff cleans and closes up shop for the night. Steve taps his foot along with the rhythm as he sizes up the stubborn padlock and starts bending one of Jan's bobby pins into the right shape.

Ordinarily Steve would give silent thanks that another day is over, only he knows he's due back on the clock early the next morning for a special event. Two scientists have booked the whole restaurant for a brunch. It's Steve's fault for volunteering as an extra set of hands, true. If anything, he should probably count himself lucky he has the job, much less extra hours. Steve just wishes he didn't need the money so badly.

"Stuck again?" Luke asks from the kitchen, sliding a plate across a high counter, the meeting place of the front of the house and back. It sandwiches a narrow walk space between a staircase, under which the employee lockers—one of which bears the pesky padlock—are nestled.

"You'd think she does it on purpose." Steve smiles over his shoulder. "Thanks." It being a Friday, Luke has, very thoughtfully, saved him some salmon. Steve hasn't gone to mass in years, but some habits die hard, and his stomach growls at the prospect of finally getting off of his feet and eating.

But first: finishing up his lock-picking. He'll have hell to pay otherwise. Steve goes back to working the jammed lock with the bobby pin. He finally hears it click and yanks the small padlock off just as the floorboards of the stairs above creak.

"My hero," Jan says when she comes into view and sees Steve holding up the padlock for her. The victory rolls in her brown hair bounce as she descends the rest of the steps two at a time.

"You're going to have to get me another box of bobby pins at this rate." Even though the black metal is nearly invisible against his black pants, he gestures toward the half-dozen remaining pins clipped to his pocket. These days it's habit to put them there before leaving home, anticipating this sort of thing.

"You should really just buy another lock," Steve admonishes. Jan is much shorter than he is, and when she grabs for her lock he holds it just out of reach. "The pins in this one are awful."

"And forgo a new dress or coat?" she scoffs, sounding indignant, but a sparkle lights in her blue eyes. Often Steve thinks she was born a decade too late. She has all the airs of a flapper. "Steve Rogers, how could you ask a girl to do something like that?"

Steve sighs and surrenders the lock. "And what happens if I'm not here next time?"

"Then I may have to walk home," Jan says. "But at least it will be in cute shoes." She reaches inside the locker for her purse. "Speaking of which, I have another favor to ask."

Steve folds his arms.

"I wouldn't—only I'm going to have to run to catch the bus as it is." She smiles apologetically.

"You need a table kicked out."

Jan always hates asking people to leave. Steve dislikes it just as much but, if they aren't taking hints an hour after closing, he's willing to be blunt. And depending on the table, sometimes a six-foot man has more persuasive power than a five-foot woman. After things went south with a rowdy table two months ago, Steve has always stepped in when Jan asks.

"He's upstairs," Jan says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Be nice to him, Stevie. I think he got stood up tonight." She blows a kiss to both Steve and Luke, and they watch as she dashes out through the darkened front room.

"If I didn't know better," Luke teases, "I'd swear that woman had you wrapped around her finger."

Steve rolls his eyes at him. "Like Jessica has you?"

Luke clears his throat uncomfortably, pretends he doesn't hear Steve, and turns up the radio in the kitchen.

Steve, meanwhile, tucks a napkin around his neck to protect the white shirt and black vest he's wearing. Then, unceremoniously, he wolfs down his dinner before going to find Jan's customer.

#

Steve climbs to the top of the stairs.

The lights have been turned down low, which is always how they first hint for patrons to start packing up. The brickwork walls are a deep, dark red in the dim lighting. A faint smell of smoke lingers in the air—all of the candles on the tables have been extinguished, save for one. Its flickering light glows warm in the shadowed room.

The man at the table with the candle is indeed all alone. He's seated with his back to Steve, slouching low in his chair and staring out the window to his right. Steve wonders what the man is doing here by himself so late. He's dressed in a well-tailored, expensive suit, and even in the low light his leather shoes gleam from a recent oil and shine. This is a man who has done well in life.

As Steve approaches, his vantage point changes. He sees more of the table, and the missing puzzle piece falls into place.

A nickel is resting on the edge of the table, buffalo side up.

Steve has seen this before, usually in bars. Hell, he's done it. Steve has met too many flirts, too many people looking for something quick and fun until they find their intended soulmate not to have. The populace without soulmates is small, and people like Steve either have to accept being an interim figure in someone's life or find a way to seek out their own sort of companionship. The buffalo nickel is one among many ways of doing just that.

One of the floorboards creaks under Steve's weight, and the man glances at his watch with a start.

"I didn't realize it was so late," he says in a rough, apologetic voice. He quickly palms the nickel, ferreting it away into one of his pockets. Steve doesn't catch which one because he's arrested by the sight of the man glancing up at him. He's handsome, with high cheekbones and a dark goatee. His blue eyes are glassy in the candle's light, just a bit too bright with unshed emotion. A quiet sort of sadness is palpable on him—one born of loneliness that Steve knows all too well.

Oh. This won't be easy. No wonder Jan couldn't bring herself to kick him out.

The man blinks, eyes widening ever so slightly at seeing Steve instead of Jan, and trepidation is evident in the set of his lips—maybe he's worried that Steve saw, of what he thinks if he did. The nickel code isn't exactly the best kept secret. But Steve assumes that Jan saw, so he isn't sure why it would set the man off now.

" 'Evening," Steve says, carefully conversational. And then, in an effort to put him at ease, Steve adds, "Don't see as many buffaloes these days."

It's another layer of code. The other man’s answer will tell Steve if this is purposeful. Most of those who are unaware of the code, if they even gather that the comment is about the five cent piece, make a comment about the new Jefferson minting; once, Steve even ran into an academic-type who lectured his ear off about disappearing herds. Or sometimes the other person _does_ know, but decides to give a naive answer anyway, a means of polite dismissal.

The man looks at him with searching eyes, taking in Steve's waiter apparel. Steve wonders if he's being judged on it.

"You just have to know where to look."

Between the nickel side the man had up and the correct answer to his comment, Steve learns a lot about the man. There had probably been an arranged date, most likely a blind one set up through letters, or surreptitious ads in the personals section of the paper. Either way, the date fell through. Perhaps the other man got cold feet, or he got to the restaurant, caught a look at this man, and walked out.

Steve can't imagine how a guy could do that to such a handsome man.

No, more likely the other man got scared. It's enough of a risk to pull the nickel out, inviting stares from those who realize what it means, proclaiming one's deficiency for all to see. It takes another level of courage to place it down buffalo side up and invite a whole new level of scorn from those who think liaising with the same sex is a sin.

"Normally I'd invite you to head down to the bar for a drink on the house to free up the table," Steve says, trying to inject some cheer into the business, "but I think the bartender's gone home already."

The man gives him a polite half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes, clearly unsure of where Steve is going with this.

Steve really shouldn't say what he's about to say. He should be going straight home, falling into bed, and preparing to wake up again to do a day of waiting tables all over again. But something burns inside of Steve and he's overcome with curiosity for this man, enough so that he swallows down the somersaults in his stomach and spits the offer out.

"I'd still like to offer you that drink," Steve says. Then his confidence falters. "If—if you wouldn't mind waiting for me to finish up my shift here, that is."

The half-smile morphs into something considerably warmer as the man reappraises Steve. "Sure. You seem like you'd be worth the wait."

#

The light above the restaurant's back door is a cold white pool in the night, an island in the pitch black alley.

As Steve hauls a bag of trash out the back door, the last of his cleaning chores for the night, he realizes, belatedly, that Jan probably knew _exactly_ what she was doing when she asked him to take over for her.

The minx.

And yet Steve isn't mad. He can't be when the trap he's walked into is so attractive.

Steve hefts the bag into the dumpster in near darkness. But as he clangs the lid shut, Steve feels a spike of nausea, realizing he's been a colossal idiot. He doesn't even know his trap's first name. _Smooth, Rogers._ All of a sudden he's terrified at the prospect of going back inside and having to introduce himself to his new date properly. If the man hadn't already been stood up once tonight, Steve would be sorely tempted to sneak away through the dark alley and pretend nothing happened.

As he heads for the back door again, Steve is so preoccupied with how awkward the next few minutes will be that he doesn't hear the scuffle of footsteps in the alley behind him. When he feels hands on his back, shoving, it's too late. He goes down, sprawling face-first toward the asphalt, knees and palms torn up from catching himself. Steve starts to scramble to his feet and freezes as he sees the muzzle of a handgun jutting into the light, pointed straight at him.

"Been a long time, Steve. _Too_ long."

A figure steps out into the pool of light wearing a black trench coat. A wide-brimmed fedora casts the figure's face in shadow, but Steve knows the clipped British accent well enough.

"Nice to see you too, Jonathan."

Steve isn’t surprised when he hears a deep American voice from the dark alley say, "Think he could do with a bit more roughing up."

"Easy, Creel."

Jonathan Drew once told Steve that he prefers the blood on other people's hands, that it's better for counting out the money. Steve can imagine well enough what they are here for.

"I don't have it."

"That's disappointing." The pistol stays trained on Steve. For a wild moment he wonders if Drew will write off the debt Steve owes and gun him down as a warning to the rest of the hard-lucks in his ledger.

"I just need more time," Steve says. "It's hard enough to keep the rent paid in this city."

"Oh, is that why you moved?" Drew's tone is cold, dangerous, and laced with suspicion. "Odd that you didn't call. Didn't so much as leave an address. Some people might think you're _trying_ to disappear."

Heavy footsteps approach, and Creel is suddenly there, gripping Steve by the shirt, slamming him up against the alley wall. Drew keeps the pistol trained on Steve.

Steve swears under his breath. "I'm doing my best to get it."

Steve knew it was a bad idea at the time when he went to Drew. But what could he do? He'd been desperate. No one would loan him the money, but the doctor said he knew a man. Of course, the doctor had also promised the procedure would work. And it did. He had just neglected to mention up front that the fees were only for _half_ of the work.

"You've got a month to get me what you owe," Drew says. "And that's generous considering what you've put me through to find you again. If you can't scrimp the money together by then working here? I suggest you try your luck at the Bowery. Plenty of work for a good-looking fellow there."

Creel opens his meaty hands, letting Steve go.

"One month," Drew reiterates, "And if you haven't come to us by then, we'll make sure no one will ever find you again."

Steve grits his teeth and watches as they leave, disappearing out onto the neon lit street.

#

Steve locks the back door and presses his back against it, taking a deep breath, willing the trembling to stop. He's boiling with anger and nerves, and the quiet music of the radio in the kitchen seems downright deafening, crowding in on him and all the thoughts running through his head. For half a moment Steve is lost in the enormity—the sheer impossibility—of what he has to do. There's no way he can come by that much money in only a month, not even if he spits all over his mother's grave and goes down to the Bowery.

It should never have been like this, he thinks, running shaking hands through his hair. He'd known dying was a possibility if he was ever to get into the army and go fight abroad. But back then he'd thought the Death Gratuity would at least go toward care for his mother.

Now it all seems so pointless with her gone and Steve no closer to enlistment.

Steve is startled from his thoughts by the crackling of the radio in the kitchen, the music being interrupted. At first Steve thinks the radio is going dark for the night, airing static until programming starts up again tomorrow morning. But then he hears a faint intoning voice, a British woman's, spouting what sounds to him like an unintelligible string of words, fuzzy like a recording. _"Warnings of gale winds in Trafalgar, Irish Sea. Viking, North Utsire, easterly five or six in south."_ Something skips, and the audio repeats. _"Warning of gale winds. Warning."_

A man's voice follows. The sound quality is better—different audio—but it’s distorted. This voice is also British, and maybe it's just the company he so recently had, but the voice makes the hair on Steve's neck rise. "This country is blighted. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses and wretched refuse of the unnatural: they’re a weight around America's neck. This is a warning. A storm is coming, and everyone must either sink or swim for themselves."

The odd transmission cuts off abruptly, and with a scratching noise the soft refrain of piano music and Ella Fitzgerald crooning, _"Baby, baby what else can I do?"_ returns as though it never went off air.

Steve stays still, not sure what he has just heard—half-imagining that he dreamed the whole thing up. When no other strange transmissions come through, Steve is almost able to convince himself that that's the case. Almost. He wanders into the empty kitchen and shuts off the radio.

Then Steve begins shutting off the lights in the back of the restaurant, working his way toward the front of the house. The habit of it is comforting.

Until he reaches the foot of the stairs.

Steve thinks that he ought to apologize, send the man on his way. He fully intends to do just that.

But as it turns out, no one is on the second floor. The hardwood floors have all been swept, that lone candle extinguished. Steve feels oddly hollowed out by the man's absence. Maybe he got cold feet too.

Steve heads back downstairs and finishes locking up in a daze.

Outside, a soft mist has started, a hint of rain to come and a miserable walk home. Steve is fumbling his keys into his pocket when he looks up and sees the man from the restaurant beneath the lamp light a few doors down.

"I thought you had gone," Steve apologizes, approaching him.

The man looks damp, but curiosity lights up his eyes. Steve thinks he must mean what he said earlier about the waiting being worthwhile. "One of the cooks said, in so many words, that they were tired of waiting for me to leave." That sounds like Luke. "Very colorful staff you've got."

Steve bristles at his wording. "That a problem?" He'll head home now if the man takes issue with Luke.

The man blinks, seems to realize what he said. "I, ah, meant his language. But no. Not like it's against the law up here." No, not like in the deeply segregated South. The man rubs at the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. "Rethinking that drink?"

Steve hesitates. The developments of the last hour are heavy on his mind, and the man has offered Steve a blameless way to bow out for the night. As he waits for Steve's internal war to play out, the man's blue eyes slide from Steve's. From the way his eyebrows knit together, Steve is sure he notes the scuffing on his palms and shoes, the rip on one of his sleeves, and the dirt on his vest. "What happened to you?"

"Uneven pavement out back," Steve blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "I tripped." And even lying about it, just the thought of Drew's promise knots Steve's stomach with unease.

The man glances at his watch. "Eleven o'clock and your clothing in shambles, you really don't waste any time, do you..." He looks askance at Steve, as though just now realizing he doesn't have a name to put to the face.

"Steve." Steve holds his hand out. They might as well do it properly.

"Tony." The man grasps his hand and gives a firm shake, like he does this every day.

It's now or never, Steve thinks. He can either let Tony walk off into the night and surely never see him again, or Steve can go with him. Tony's comment about wasted time strikes a chord deep inside Steve. And he finds he wants very badly to go with this stranger, to leave his troubles behind, at least for a few hours. If Steve only has a month before the loan shark comes back for him, then he wants to live a little.

"No. I think I'd still like to go get that drink, Tony."

#

Tony picks the place after Steve admits the only gin joints he knows are a several dozen blocks away. Neither he nor his date are fond of the prospect of heading so far afield on foot.

Inside it's dark and crowded, and as he follows Tony, pushing through the throng, Steve is thankful he wriggled out of his jacket and vest earlier. It would be unbearably hot with them on.

"Have you been here before?" he shouts over the din.

Tony grins. "Never."

"What can I get you?" Steve asks as Tony points toward a few unoccupied inches of table. It's all the way in the back, in an unsightly corner next to what looks like the circuit breaker.

"Nothing. I'll get the tab."

"But—" Steve begins to protest, intent on making good on his offer from earlier.

"What's your poison, Steve? Whiskey? Rum?"

"Uh, just beer."

Tony doesn't look like he believes that. But a few minutes later he’s braving his way to the bar, and Steve finds himself trying so very hard not to stare.

It’s hard, though. The other man is captivating, and he can’t help but let his eyes linger on Tony’s lithe frame, on the long pale fingers wrapped around two pint glasses as he fights his way back to their slice of table.

Steve finds himself wondering what those fingers would feel like, running over his skin. He feels a surge of heat and a swell and has to abandon that thought. As is, he’s pretty sure that he’s flushed when Tony sits down opposite him with two bubbling pint glasses, one foamy and straw-colored, the other a pale cherry hue.

"That doesn't look like beer," Steve says of Tony's glass, curious, and also eager to preoccupy himself with less carnal thoughts.

"Italian soda," he says, offering Steve the glass. But Steve passes with a shake of his head. "I'm a teetotaler."

A rush of heat spreads across Steve's cheeks. "Oh. I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't be." Tony smiles. "It's only because my dear mother would turn over in her grave if she thought her son was drinking."

"Was she a prohibitionist?"

Tony's lips quirk in pensive reflection. "No, no, I'd say for her it was more of a religious fervor."

Steve smiles, thinking about his own mother. "Not so different from mine. Though it was the other way around for her. She kept a bottle of brandy above the stove. It came down every Sunday after mass."

"Catholic boy, huh?"

"A very lapsed one _."_

Tony grins knowingly. And as gorgeous as the man is, he’s tenfold that when his eyes light up with something devilish. "Same."

Steve rubs at the back of his neck, not sure if it's polite to ask, but curiosity gets the better of him. "Was it because of the marks for you too?"

"Oh yes. I very narrowly escaped a monastery," Tony replies, almost proudly, hiking the hem of his right sleeves up to reveal smooth, olive skin. He doesn’t have a soulmate mark. "The parish priest told me I would make a fantastic man of the cloth." He wrinkles his nose. "And I was tempted at first, but at fourteen a life of celibacy sounded awful."

"I can't imagine," Steve says, even though he can. It is lonely, longing for something more amid a backdrop of fleeting, tenuous relationships, liable to break the moment a soulmate appears. It feels momentous to find someone so like himself.

This time it is Steve's turn to roll up his sleeve to show Tony the faded gray name on his wrist, Arnie, set against light pink discoloration of the skin. It has been that way for over a decade, and Steve doubts that it will ever change.

Tony's eyes soften as Steve surreptitiously tugs the cotton sleeve back down. "What happened?"

"I don't really know. I woke up one day when I was fifteen with the name faded. My mother said we would have to inform the Domestic Relations Bureau. She said it meant that he had died, whoever he was. The DRB wrote back a few weeks later asking me to re-register if a new name appeared."

"Clearly it didn't."

"Didn't stop my parents from hoping the second one would be a girl's name." They were never cruel. But Steve can remember lying awake late at night, listening to them arguing in the next room about money and doctors. He can remember his mother crying and his father saying, _It's been hard enough for me to find work. I don't want his every day to be a struggle._

Tony looks thoughtful. "Has it always been just a first name? I thought it was usually both."

"I underwent a procedure, but the fees only covered half the removal."

"Why?"

The surprise is evident on Tony's face. Steve realizes that he must not know what it's like to walk around everyday with a damning piece of evidence on one's body. "The army. I wanted to join up, go overseas. But they won't take guys like me."

"They won't take guys like me either," Tony says. At first Steve thinks it's because he doesn't have a name on his wrist, but then Tony thumps a fist on his chest and smiles sadly. "Rotten heart."

Steve's eyes linger on Tony's clothes again, the loosened tie that looks like it's made of silk and the starched white dress shirt. "What's a well-to-do guy like you want with joining up?"

Tony shifts in his seat at the question and rubs at the knuckles of one hand. "I don't know. It just seems like the right thing to do."

To leave a life of comfort for a battlefront strikes Steve as noble. In the space of the moment, Tony becomes something more, and that’s paired with a deep sense of respect. Maybe it shows because Tony quickly turns the conversation back to Steve. "What was your reason for going?"

This is an easy question. "I don't like people who throw their weight around. Don't care if it's one guy or a whole government."

Tony sits back in his chair, languid, and tilts his chin to look up at Steve. Steve feels his heart beat a bit faster when Tony smirks, eyes half-lidded. "You get a lot of that, big guy?"

"Not so much after the growth spurt," Steve admits. "Usually it's people who think they can push you around for a tip." _Or when money is involved, period_ , he thinks darkly.

"Army probably pays better than waiting tables."

Steve makes a small noise of agreement.

"Are those two jobs really the extent of your options? You seem like a sharp fellow." Tony's blue eyes narrow, studying Steve. "Hard to believe you haven't picked up any other skills."

Steve rubs at the back of his neck again, self-conscious. "My father was a locksmith. He taught me a little of the trade before he passed, but he sold off most of his equipment during the depression. It was too hard for him to find steady work."

"What about now?"

Steve shrugs. "So much of it is word of mouth." He thinks of Jan and Luke, scraping by like himself. "I wouldn't dream of charging the people who know."

Tony arches an eyebrow and points past Steve at the locked circuit breaker door. "Think you could pick that?"

Steve eyes the small lock, takes the bobby pins he fashioned earlier from his pocket, checks the shape, and starts in on the lock.

Tony laughs out loud at the total lack of hesitation. "Why you haven't started a life of crime is beyond me."

Steve grins at him, then makes short work of the lock. It's easy, probably because electrical panel locks aren't meant for security so much as to deter the potential for annoyance. He pulls the panel open, wriggles the door back and forth on its hinges, and holds up one hand as if to say _tada,_ allowing himself a self-satisfied smile when he sees how amused Tony is by the whole thing.

"Oh truly," Steve brags, "the world is lucky I was raised better than that."

"Very," Tony agrees, producing a scrap of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table with the nib of a pencil. "Give me your number. I'd be happy to throw work your way."

Steve catches the paper with two fingers, sliding it closer to himself, and takes up the pencil in his other hand. He swallows, looking up into Tony’s warm blue eyes, and wonders if there's more to this than a simple business proposition. If so, then the pleasant expression on Tony's face gives nothing away.

Steve pencils down his name and a number that won't work come next month. Ignoring that for now, Steve hands the paper back to Tony. The tips of their fingers brush, and an electric euphoria tingles through him at the touch. And maybe he’s imagining it, maybe he just wants this to be something more, but he thinks that Tony lets the touch linger.

"Hey!" Whatever has just passed between them, it snaps with the word. One of the bar waitresses has an empty tray under one arm and a look that could kill on her face. "What are you doing back there?"

Steve glances at the ajar electrical panel door, grins nervously, and shuts it. The lock re-engages with a _click._ "I think it may be time to leave."

Playfulness twinkles in Tony's eyes, so completely different from the emptiness that Steve first saw in the restaurant. "To the next place, then?"

#

They stumble down the block, or at least they do in Steve's case. Tony has his arm wound under Steve's shoulder despite his protests that he's not very drunk. (But in truth, he probably is.) It's raining in earnest now, pattering off of tin gutters and drumming against windows. Passing cars splash through the puddles that have already collected in the streets.

"This is me," Tony says as they round the corner of a large building that sports shops below and apartments above. He presses Steve under the awning of a closed florist. The cloying scent of roses still clings to the space. "Let me call you a cab." Tony grins, water dripping from his black hair. Neither of them had had the sense to bring an umbrella for the night.

Tony's white shirt is soaked through, all but transparent, and clinging to his frame. Steve can see the A-shirt worn underneath and the sculpt of his lean muscles. Steve still wants so badly to run his hands over the other man and to have Tony do the same—to press his lips against Tony's and trail kisses downward, following the beads of water dripping from his goatee.

But of course Steve won't. That's a bit much for a first date. "I don't need one."

"You look like you're going to catch a cold."

Steve looks down at his own clothing, dully noting that his shirt is as drenched as Tony's, though he has the vest on again, which gives him a bit more privacy.

"I'll be fine," he promises. Bad enough that Tony cannily managed to foot the bill every place they went when _Steve_ is the one who invited him out. But Steve isn’t complaining. They’ve spent the better part of the night out, which he would never have been able to afford. And even though they’ve spent it in a teasing dance, Steve has loved every moment of being with Tony.

He’s fallen hard and fast.

"If you're sure..." Tony leans in close, close enough that Steve can smell the sugar on his breath. He feels hot all over despite the cold brick wall at his back. A few more inches and they could be kissing. Here. Where anyone could see.

 _No, I'm not sure,_ Steve thinks, a terrible certainty that once they go their separate ways, he will miss the man's easy smiles and the sound of his laughter. He's known Tony for only a handful of hours, but in so many ways, tonight feels like he's spent it with a long-lost friend, someone who understands so much with so little said.

Maybe this is a shade of what it feels like to meet a soulmate.

Despite Steve's reservations about first dates, he really wishes Tony would invite him up instead of offering to call a cab. His heart hammers in his chest as he works up the courage to ask the next question even though it's selfish with the sword hanging over his head—the very real threat that things between them can't go farther without one or both of them getting hurt.

"Can I see you again?"

Tony blinks and his eyes shift subtly, searching Steve. For a terrifying moment, Steve thinks he'll say no, that's he's misinterpreted camaraderie for something more. But then Tony swallows, nods his head, and a broad grin steals back across his face.

"I'd like that a lot."

Tony withdraws, and they continue down the street toward the apartment's lobby. Steve feels like he’s floating, and Tony looks like he’s come a million miles from that moment Steve first set eyes on him in the restaurant.

Steve has never let himself hope too much—not since the name on his wrist faded. But tonight has been so unlike other dates. It’s hard not to be swept up in the thrill of it.

“Until the next night then?” Tony smiles. Then he looks up, absently, and in an instant his features shift from calm and at ease to inscrutable. He glances at his watch. "I'll call you," Tony promises, one hand going to the pocket where the slip of paper with Steve's number is. "Something that won't sound too obvious over the party line." His voice is light and relaxed, but it's at odds with the way he holds himself, like a snake coiling in on itself, preparing to strike.

Confused, Steve nods as the other man abruptly leaves his side, heading up the stone steps. "Goodnight, Tony," he calls after him.

Tony turns. "Goodnight." His smile is polite, but his eyes are distant, his thoughts drawn elsewhere.

He turns to greet the doorman, and like that he's gone.

Steve lingers for a few moments more, just long enough for the doorman to turn a suspicious eye on him. It's late and the rain is worse now; as he leaves and rounds a corner to head home, Steve has to hold a hand up to shield his eyes. Come tomorrow morning, sick or not, the next day will be a slog through hell.

Even so, the prospect of hearing from Tony warms Steve, makes him feel lighter in a way that is distinct and separate from the tipsiness.

Though it's late, it's still New York, and after a few blocks several cars have already passed by Steve. So when a dark-colored Cadillac pulls close, slowing down to keep pace with him, Steve doesn't initially give it much thought. Until he realizes that it's driving on the wrong side of the street.

He freezes, but by then it's too late. Two men as big as Steve climb out, dressed in tailored black suits. One of them is holding a length of rope, the other a burlap sack. From the car, a third man points a gun at Steve.

"Get in the car," he hears.

Steve doesn't move, and the man with the rope advances on him.

Steve raises his hands and takes a swing at the man with the rope, but the guy catches both of his wrists, twisting Steve so that he's between the man and the car. The one with the sack seizes the opportunity, and everything goes dark as the cloth bag is pulled down over Steve's head. He's wrestled bodily into the car by the two men, and Steve's struggles are momentarily stilled as one lands a vicious blow to the back of his head, rendering Steve helpless as they bind his hands behind his back. They tie his feet next. Between the rope and the way he's pinned between their bodies and the leather seat, Steve is effectively immobilized.

"Drive," someone says, and he feels the car accelerate.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Warily, Tony makes his way through the lobby. The entryway of the building is done in '20s art nouveau fashion, a dated sort of elegance, but with the Tiffany stained glass chandeliers above and white marble below, it has its charms. He taps the elevator button to head up and waits, an itchy feeling crawling across his body. But he's alone in the lobby.

When the elevator finally descends, Tony tenses, a dark shape visible through the gold bars of the elevator cage. The figure is illuminated from the back by the bright overhead lights in the lift. But the doors don't open at the ground floor, and the elevator car passes Tony by on its way to the basement. By the time it comes back up to the ground floor, it's empty. Tony breathes a silent sigh of relief, slips inside, and presses the button for floor six. As the door slides shut and he hears the whir of mechanical gears, Tony kneels down, hiking up his right pant leg, and pulls a small pistol from a hidden holster.

At his floor, Tony exits cautiously, sweeping his gaze down the hall in either direction, before making his way to his apartment door. He waits, hovering outside for several minutes, just listening. But all Tony hears are the distant, muffled sounds of coughs and radios behind doors. When he finally unlocks his front door and steps inside, nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary.

The apartment is messy, but it's a familiar sort of chaos; there is a method to Tony's clutter. Nothing is out of place or overturned.

It isn't until Tony's sweep of the apartment brings him to the kitchen that he finds the intruder. Her red hair is let down, and she's seated at his table, sipping on a glass of lemonade.

"Is that how you always come home?" Natasha asks.

Tony sighs, rolls his eyes, and sets his weapon down, half-relieved, half-disgusted. "Only when I see a light in my window that I didn't leave on."

Natasha arches an eyebrow at him over the lip of the glass. "What? Did you expect me to sit here waiting for you in the dark? You're late by the way."

"I didn't realize I had a curfew." Tony grabs a glass from the cupboard and kicks a chair at the table out. Then he steals the lemonade pitcher from Natasha. "You left me high and dry at the rendezvous point."

"You're always dry, by the look of things. Prohibition ended nearly ten years ago, you know."

"I know," Tony says. "Nearly ruined the family business."

"Really?” Natasha's interest piques, and Tony thinks that perhaps he shouldn't have let that slip. "Your family ran a bootlegging gig?"

"Mama always said, don't drink the merchandise. Guess it stuck. But," Tony shifts gears, "as I recall, we weren't discussing ancient history. We were discussing why you stood me up."

Natasha scowls. "Clearly you were expecting Fury. Your coin trick would have made more sense if he had turned up tonight."

And it would have made Nick decidedly uncomfortable. Tony is a little disappointed since it backfired, leaving him alone to contemplate his nameless wrist. Then again, Steve was a lovely, unexpected surprise, one Tony would have loved to savor all night. But duty calls. He thinks that Steve would probably understand. He’s got far too much gallantry about him not to. "To business then?" It sounds as though that's where they are heading.

"Any leads?"

Tony blows out a frustrated puff of air. "No good ones. Fisk's operation is still a black box to me, but so far I don't have anything to tie him to the sabotage. If my people know anything about the sinking, then they're being secretive about it. New faces have turned up, but there's been no buzzing from the associates about unusual bribes or opportunities."

"So whoever sunk the _Triskelion_ must have done it with a small, organized crew that could fly under the radar."

"Any guesses? Names I should be looking for?"

"Small and secretive sounds like Hydra."

"Why would Hydra want to sink a passenger vessel?" Tony asks, bewildered. "That's a lot of trouble to go to for very little return."

"Maybe to send a message, maybe to terrorize the harborfront. I'm not saying you're wrong, Stark, just that the shoe fits."

Natasha is hard to read on the best of days. She's also canny, which is probably _de rigueur_ within the intelligence community. But something in Tony's gut tells him he's not getting the whole story here. Tony still isn't sure why the strategic division of Naval Intelligence came to _him_ specifically with an olive branch or how they ever got the clearance to liaise with the mob.

It makes sense though. Tony has a network of men, all reporting up a chain of command to him, not unlike the military itself. But unlike the military, Tony doesn’t have to deal with red tape. Nor does he have a sterling reputation to uphold—or to hide. When it comes to back-alley business, Tony's men can get their foot in the door a lot easier than an unknown face. And since they get their marching orders from Tony, he can send them anywhere without question. They don't even need to know why they're there. "It's for the good of the family" is all a _capo_ needs to say.

Of course, as a _capo_ , Tony reports to the under-boss of the family, and then to the boss himself. And Tony has a feeling that if Obadiah got wind of the arrangement he has with Fury and his folks, godfather or not, Tony's head would roll. He is, after all, putting home front defense above the family. And noble intentions or not, that isn't what the mob values.

"Your turn to share," Tony says.

Natasha nods and slides two objects across the table. "We've been sorting through the ship's wreckage that the divers have pulled up. These caught our attention."

The first is a small, battered black rectangular object with numbers on the side. Upon closer examination, Tony's shop class days come back, and he recognizes it as a capacitor.

"Made by a local manufacturer," Natasha supplies, "who specializes in radios and happens to sell a lot of amateur kits."

"And that's odd?" Tony asks. "The ship was being renovated."

"It is. All of the equipment was National Radio brand."

"That's...an oddly specific line of investigation."

"Have you heard the late night broadcast intrusions?"

"Heard of them," Tony says. The _Time_ 's opinion was that they were little more than a nuisance. "A Nazi sympathizer, if popular opinion is correct. Though the accent is certainly surprising if that's true. You think there's a connection?"

"The Nazis are hardly the only ones interested in bettering the human race through genetics." Natasha presses her lips together, weighing what she tells him next. "The recordings are always prefaced by sea conditions, a British broadcast called the _Shipping Report._ A tenuous link, until you add in the fact a delegation of scientists was on board the _Triskelion_ the day it sank, and that two of the delegates are dignitaries with incendiary viewpoints on the _status quo_.”

“Who?”

“A Congressman, Charles Xavier, and a member of the Wakandan royal family."

Tony digests this as he picks up the second object that Natasha has laid in front of him. It's a tarnished piece of brass pipe, the edges of which are ragged from the shearing force of a blast. "I suppose this also didn't come standard on the ship."

"If it were from the ship, it would have been made of aluminum."

Tony fits the pieces that he's been presented together. "Pipe bomb?" Some sort of bomb, definitely, despite what they've told the public about the sinking being an accident. "Possibly detonated using radio waves? Did you talk to the radio manufacturer?"

Natasha smiles. "Of course we did. He wasn't very cooperative though. We thought that perhaps you could be more _persuasive_."

Tony sighs inwardly. "What's the name of the place?"

"JJ Electronics."

Tony hasn't heard of them.

Natasha forks over one last item, a business card with twin letter Js and an address. It's deep in the heart of one of Fisk's neighborhoods. Tony swallows, mouth going dry. He will be inviting serious backlash, to himself and to the family, going in under the pretense of mob business.

But what can Tony do? National security is at stake.

"I'll see what I can do," he says.

#

After tying him to a chair, the men are brusque about ripping the hood off of Steve. He blinks under the glare of a naked light bulb and glances quickly around the small space they have him tied up in. It's barely larger than a shed. The paint on the decaying wood boards is flaking, a faded blue green, and Steve can smell salt in the air, hear the sound of ship bells and the puff of their horns over the pattering of rain.

Two of the men from the car are looming over him. Their expressions are dour, and the way that the light falls on them from above casts sharp shadows on their faces. Suit One and Suit Two, Steve decides to call them. Each of his wrists is tightly affixed to the arms of the chair, and his legs are similarly tied to the chair legs. It galls Steve to have to look up at the Suits—the way it makes him feel vulnerable, which is probably no accident.

Steve tenses as a third person starts speaking from somewhere behind him. The deep voice sounds like it's made of coarse gravel being rubbed together. "What's your connection to Wilson Fisk?"

"Who?" Steve asks, genuinely confused.

Suit One must get a visual cue from the speaker because Steve spits blood as the butt of the man's pistol connects with his jaw.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Steve says. This time the blow from the pistol lands right below Steve's eye.

"But you know Jonathan Drew. He's an associate of Fisk's, and he's been sniffing around our streets for the past few days. Tonight he met with you. Why?"

Steve's mind whirs. As if his little meeting with Drew couldn't have gotten any worse. Fisk is widely rumored to be a mafia boss. If it's true—if Drew works for him—Steve would have never gone to him for money if he'd known. Now on top of everything, it's landed him in this trouble. Worse, these people don't exactly look like law enforcement. The only other party Steve can imagine wanting a quarrel with Fisk is another crime family.

Maybe, Steve thinks grimly, he walked away from his encounter with Drew with far less than a month.

"I owe Drew money," Steve says.

"Then by extension you owe Fisk money."

"I didn't know. My only dealings were with Drew."

The pistol's handle catches Steve on the jaw again, and it smarts even more. He's bound to be bruised tomorrow. If Steve _has_ a tomorrow.

"I swear, I've only dealt with Drew. He came looking for me because I haven't paid up."

A few moments of contemplative silence follow, and then the gravelly voice asks, "Then what were you doing with the other man tonight?"

"What man?" Steve is confused.

"The man you left the restaurant with."

Steve swallows, resolving not to say a thing. As the seconds stretch onward, Suit Two nods at another verbal cue, pulls out _his_ pistol too, cocks it, and points it at Steve. Anger wells up inside of Steve, and he grits his teeth. They can shoot him for all he cares. Whatever these creeps want with him, he's not going to out Tony and drag him into his mess.

When it becomes apparent that Steve is going to keep his mouth shut, the man with the gun pointed at him looks from Steve to the mysterious voice behind him. Steve tenses, waiting for the shot.

Instead the voice says coolly, "Check under his sleeve."

Suit One, the brawnier one that wrestled Steve into the car, moves forward and bends down, sawing through the rope around Steve's right arm. His hands are like a vice as he keeps Steve's forearm still with one and rolls up the damp white cloth of Steve's sleeve with the other.

"It says _Arnie_."

The shift in the men's gazes feels like ice water down Steve's back. No way in hell he's leaving here alive.

"This doesn't leave the room," the voice says. Both of the suits nod. "What's your name?"

Steve almost laughs bitterly when he realizes that the man is talking to him. What does he want it for? To notify next of kin? Steve has none. "Steve."

"Steve who?"

"Steve Rogers."

"Well, Mr. Rogers"—the inflection is still neutral, but the edge is gone—"if Fisk's only hold on you is the money, maybe we can help one another. Your ties to Drew could be convenient. You'd have to work for us, but the Stark family pays well."

Stark. Of course. Steve's hunch that he had been grabbed by another mafia is all too accurate. He stares hard at the pistol pointed at him. His hand is still free of the ropes, though held tightly by the _mafioso_. Even if he could wrestle his wrist from the man's grip, he'd be dead long before he freed himself.

"Go to hell," Steve spits and braces for the shot.

Instead he hears a _hmm_ from the voice. "While we waited for you to leave, I couldn't help noticing your colleagues. That man who left in a chef's coat and met a pretty white woman on the corner..." Steve hears the cluck of a tongue and knows he's talking about Luke. "This may not be the South, but the miscegenation laws are clear." Steve jerks and tries to crane his neck around to glare the loathsome man in the face. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the outline of a figure, but the back of the little room is shadowed. The goon gripping his arm grabs Steve by his bruised chin and forces him to look straight ahead.

They can't know about Luke and Jessica.

Can they?

"And given your condition," the gravelly voice goes on, drenched in evil self-satisfaction, "maybe the questionable nature of the staff runs throughout. What's the name of the girl? The one who left just before Drew had his little chat with you? I wonder what _she's_ hiding. Everyone has something."

Steve's heart sinks, and he swallows. "You just won't take no for an answer, will you?"

"Think of it as making your choice simple. Things can either get very difficult for the four of you. Or you could make a tidy profit."

Steve doesn't see how that's a choice at all.

"What do you want me to do?"

He can almost hear the smile in the voice, and it burns Steve up inside knowing it's because he's let the other man win. "Walk through the door without looking back. Get in the car that's waiting outside, and tell the driver to take you home. He'll be back at the same address tomorrow. Be there and no one gets hurt. Sound easy enough?"

Suit One, who is still hovering over Steve, gets out his knife again, freeing Steve from the rest of his rope shackles. Steve stands, glowering at the two men as they step aside for him.

Steve obeys. He doesn't look back, doesn't say anything as he leaves. His words would probably crack with fury if he did.

Outside, the night air is crisp and cool, and a wind is blowing in on the docks, bringing more rain from offshore. Sure enough, the black Cadillac from earlier is waiting, engine purring.

But as Steve opens the door, he hears two sharp snaps like muffled gunfire. Two shots for two suits. Two men who must have heard something sensitive—something the voice didn't want to leave that room.

Steve slides into the car seat, back ramrod straight, and gives the driver his address.

Rain lashes against the car. With Steve's wet clothes and the heater on full blast, the inside of the car rapidly becomes humid and stifling. Steve doesn't exchange any more words with the driver. Instead he stares at his right wrist, sure that it and the shots he heard are connected, wondering how exactly he can use it against the gravelly-voiced man.

#

Tony buries his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, trying to ward off the chill of the morning air. He's barely slept, mind electrified with everything from the previous night. He has to suppress a smile even now, thinking about Steve, and he itches to go home and call the man, set something up for tonight.

But first, duty calls. After the family business, the radio manufacturer's visit still looms, but Tony puts it from his mind.

Tony forces himself to focus on the task at hand. Today he is due a visit to several shops along the waterfront. Ostensibly he and Happy are collecting "dues," which is really just a euphemism for protection money. He _could_ assign a trivial task like this to one of his men—he usually does—but on the chance that tight lips are keeping information from trickling up, Tony wants to do some chatting of his own. If he can give a few discounts to the shop keeps for information? Then so much the better.

Tony's never really liked the idea of protection money; he's always preferred bootlegging or laundering—fewer scowls and frightened people in those operations.

Though not always.

Tony and Happy stroll along a section of the docks in deep disrepair: rotting wood planks underfoot and dilapidated warehouse walls. The next stop on the list is one of the shabbiest of the block, a wine importer that has been hit hard by the war in Europe. Happy waits outside and Tony lets himself into the little office, a bell on the door ringing to announce his presence. The Frenchman inside turns to greet his visitor, briefly excited before his face falls, one eye twitching at the sight of Tony.

"Hello René."

"Stark," he's greeted curtly. Tony sighs inwardly. He probably deserves it. Even without a war on, Duquesne had always been equivocating in his hatred of forking over protection money. The last time Tony bothered to come down and collect in person, Duquesne had lost a few valuable Bordeaux bottles instead of cash.

"If you're here about the money, my ledgers are all red and my cellars are nearly empty. I doubt even the building itself would fetch enough to provide your pound of flesh." He waves a hand around at the peeling paint and obvious sag in the ceiling where a few wet stains have leaked through.

"Actually," Tony says, "I am more interested in the protection part of the arrangement." This is what he has been disguising his questions as all morning. There is a certain truth to it. If the ships or the docks are at risk from groups unknown, then the money the family receives from the waterfront shops is at stake. It is this, more than anything else, that has kept Tony from ruling Fisk out entirely from the investigation into the sinking. A blow against the Starks is a win for Fisk.

Duquesne raises an eyebrow, and his lip juts out at one corner as he assesses Tony. "In what way?"

"I've heard there's been some trouble along the waterfront. Trouble that might be bad for our people. I wanted to know if you'd seen or heard anything."

Duquesne still looks as though he expects Tony to pull a gun on him at any moment. "I've heard nothing. The only trouble I'm concerned with is supply lines."

Tony doesn't get a chance to press him further. The bell on the door rings again—Happy, poking his head in — as the siren of a cop car whistles past.

"Boss," Happy says, urgency in his voice. "Something you should see."

Down the docks, Tony can see that a police car is already parked outside of a small shed. The cruiser that just passed them, lights ablaze, is clearly headed to the same place.

Tony follows Happy on foot, unease roiling in his stomach. Something is very wrong.

As they get closer, Tony recognizes one of the police officers standing out front, keeping the growing gaggle of curious working men at bay. Benjamin "Bullseye" Poindexter is about as crooked as they come. He's willing to look the other way, so long as his palm is greased, which Tony has used to suit his own purposes in the past.

Tony breaks from the crowd, and Bullseye looks as thrilled to see him as a eunuch's bride on her wedding night.

"Better if you weren't here, Stark," he mumbles around a cigarette in his mouth.

"And why would that be?" Tony asks coolly.

"Two of your mooks found dead this morning." Tony's mind races, wondering if there's been a confrontation with Fisk's men. If it's Fisk, then Bullseye is just as likely to look the other way and sweep this under the rug.

Tony frowns. "Who?"

Bullseye shrugs. "One of the other guys made the connection. Nobody that I recognize, but Castle confirmed it."

"Castle's been here?"

That's odd. Castle is a high-ranking member of the family, not a _capo_ yet, but more than a made man. He reports to Stane, like Tony, even though he doesn’t have the title. It’s rare for him to be in these parts though; he rarely haunts the docks. Usually his interests lie in the neighborhoods closer to Manhattan.

"Yeah." Bullseye doesn't elaborate. Tony would poke for more information, but then he says, "Stark, they were shot from the _front_. No indication of struggle."

Tony feels an icy chill shoot through him. Whoever shot them had their trust. Which means the family has a problem.

Tony files this and Castle's odd appearance away in his mind. "Keep me in the loop," he says.

Bullseye gives a dismissive, curt snort, and Tony know he won't get anything more from him today.

Happy can read Tony better than anyone else. The former boxer has been with Tony for years, so when he sees the look on Tony's face after the talk with Bullseye, he knows something is up.

But Tony doesn't want Happy's nose in this. The fewer people who know for now, the better. He waves a hand, indicating that further discussion is off the table.

Happy grimaces, and Tony knows he's fighting the urge to ask what happened. "Time to go, boss?"

Tony nods, feeling a headache coming on. He needs to report this up the chain, which means meeting with Obie.

His feelings toward the other man used to be a lot sweeter when he was just his godfather.

"I guess we won't be collecting from all the shops today," Happy says.

Tony makes a nonverbal noise of agreement.

In a way, it's nice. One less thing for Tony to agonize over.

#

Steve tries to rest, but sleep won't come.

He's too anxious, not knowing what to expect, and so he sits up, walking the radio’s tuner up and down the frequency bands every hour or so.

Morning comes, and the new day passes in a haze for Steve — he should be at work. He's going to lose his job for this. But the man from last night hasn't told him _when_ the car will come. So he waits, compulsively parting the curtains, watching for the car from the night before.

The black Cadillac pulls up in front of Steve's apartment building around ten. Steve lingers at the window for a few moments, looking down on it, tired and full of trepidation.

But he thinks about the threats made last night and knows the consequences are too big if he backs out now.

Steve grabs his coat and hat and goes down to meet the driver.

#

The driver is different, not the same man from last night. But Steve is sure the car is the same; a distinctive chip is missing from the front dash, and the same smell of sun-bleached leather and the faint, stale tang of bleach is present. They don't talk, and when the car finally pulls to a stop after twenty agonizing minutes, Steve steps out onto the curb of a sleepy neighborhood.

The street is lined with row houses. Children let out playful shrieks as they play a few blocks down, and Steve hears the crack of a wood bat connecting with a baseball.

_Maybe the driver made a mistake_ , Steve thinks, eyes sweeping the street. For half a moment he hopes it's true. But that prospect is quickly dashed as a blond man in a workman's cap and clothes approaches him, a bag slung across one of his shoulders.

"You must be Rogers," he says, sticking out his hand. Steve reluctantly takes it and shakes. "I'm Clint Barton. Walk with me."

Steve would like to say no, but of course he can't.

Together they stroll down the street, past the baseball game. "So what do you know about this job?" Clint asks. Steve can't help but notice that though he has a calm, aloof air, Barton is constantly scanning their surroundings, eyes open and alert.

"Nothing," Steve confesses. "I was just told to get in the car when it came."

Barton raises one eyebrow at the revelation. "So do you have any idea what it means to do a job for the family?"

"Can't say I do."

Barton's eyes narrow and his mouth goes flat. "Of all the—why'd they go and give me someone so green for a job on Fisk's turf?"

Steve is at a loss for how to answer that. But maybe he can convince Barton to let him go—that Steve would be a liability to him. "I don't see what they wanted with me in the first place."

"You're the set up." When Steve gives him a blank stare, Barton explains, "You're the way we get our foot in the door."

"Why me?"

Barton smiles. "Ah, now see, that's what they didn't tell _me._ That's the thing about doing jobs. You get the orders, you go. Seems like you're already acquainted with that aspect. But the point of them always boils down to one of two things: protecting the family or bringing in money. This one just happens to be both."

Barton slips a wad of bills into Steve's hand. Steve looks down and stops in his tracks. It's more paper money than he's ever held in his hands before. "What's this for?" he asks, fingers trembling, suddenly all too aware of how out in the open they are. He stuffs the bills into his ratty coat.

"Call it an investment," Barton says. "You're going to use it to get your foot in the door so we can deliver a message to a man who otherwise wouldn't be interested."

"I don't follow." Steve still doesn't understand what the cash is for. In what is probably a dead tell for how anxious he is, Steve pats the lump, reassuring himself that it's still there.

"The boss said you would once things got underway. Once you're inside, knock him out and let me in the back door."

Steve nods numbly as they come to a stop at the steps of a pale yellow house. Barton claps him on the back. "If all goes well, the investment in your pocket is yours to keep." He flashes his teeth at Steve. "An incentive to do your best. Good luck, Rogers."

Steve feels his mouth go dry. "Thanks, I think," he mutters and goes to knock on the door.

When the door creaks open, just as Barton said, everything clicks into place with cold clarity.

"Rogers." Jonathan Drew's prim voice is full of pleased smugness. He must think he made quite the impression last night. "I didn't expect to see you so soon. Seems you're quite resourceful when the pressure is turned up." His eyes flash at the sight of the bruises. "Or did you fall into some late night luck? The kind that likes it rough?"

Steve pushes down the disgust and dread he feels, putting one hand on the door jamb. He can do this. He just has to get Clint inside, scare Drew—or whatever the hell else kind of message the Starks want sent—and then he can be free of Scylla and Charybdis. In a way, this is easy, working for the Starks when it's someone he hates. "Can we discuss this somewhere besides your doorstep?"

Drew steps to the side, letting Steve enter.

It's a nice house. Steve draws his hat off subconsciously as his gaze drifts around from the table with a vase of hydrangeas to the rug that runs the length of the hardwood floor and the pictures on the wall. Steve can see the brush strokes in the paint, and he realizes they must be originals. By all appearances, even low-ranked members of the mob eat well.

Steve's gaze isn't merely for the materialistic though. He's also hunting for something weaponizable in the event his fists aren't enough to subdue Drew. Steve is keenly aware that the loan shark may well have his gun on him, but if he does, it isn't concealed at hand height. Drew is in a white shirt and suspenders with no holster in sight, so Steve figures he'll have a good few seconds to knock him out before worrying about a firearm coming into play.

"This way." Drew beckons Steve with the curl of a finger, leading him past a sitting room, through the hall to a small office. A desk is piled high with papers and an accounts ledger sits open, swimming with black and red ink. Next to the desk, one of the walls sports a built-in safe.

Steve braces himself. It's now or never. Once Drew gets to his desk, there's no telling what he might have hidden in a drawer. Steve curls his hand into a fist and hits the other man in the back of the skull with everything he's got.

Drew goes down hard, making a loud thump as he hits the floor. Steve knows he doesn't have long, a few minutes perhaps, before the man is back up. He hesitates for a few moments, drinking in the sight of the vile man laid out cold on the floor. Steve can't bring himself to be sorry for decking him even if it was from behind.

Steve finds the back door quickly, leading out of the kitchen and onto a back deck. Barton is waiting, and when Steve lets him in, he sweeps into the house like a prowling cat.

"Where is he?"

Steve leads him back to Drew, and Barton produces a length of rope from his bag. With short, quick movements, he starts binding Drew to the leg of the desk. "Sweep the house. I'll wait up with him."

"Sweep for what?" Steve asks, genuinely perplexed.

"For witnesses."

The cold feeling Steve felt earlier at the door descends again. They're in the man's house, and it honestly never occurred to Steve that a low-life like Drew might live with other people—that he might have a family. "I thought we were just here to deliver a message."

"In so many words." Barton grins, patting Drew down and handing Steve the concealed handgun he finds up Drew's pant leg. "Go."

The weapon feels heavy and wrong in Steve's hand, and though he obeys Barton, his feet are like lead.

Steve says a silent prayer, hoping desperately that no one else is in the house. But it falls on silent ears. No sooner has he gotten to the top of the stairs than he startles a woman coming from the shower in nothing but a white cotton towel. Her eyes widen and Steve immediately holds a finger to his lips, begging her to be silent. The gun in his other hand stays pointed firmly at the floor. He refuses to point the thing at a woman.

She stares from the handgun to him, hands white-knuckled on the towel. Steve sees recognition in her eyes, and she must know it's Drew's. In those few seconds, Steve also notices the scar discoloring the creamy skin near her shoulder, the mottled purple bruising down the front of her long legs, the cigarette burn on the swell of one breast.

Steve feels sick as realization sets in, and now he's glad to have knocked out the bastard downstairs.

He motions for her to move through one of the bedroom doors and her eyes widen again. She stays rooted to the spot, and it's easy to guess why. But Steve needs her to cooperate, and there's only one thing he can think of to convince her he's not here for her. He pulls up his sleeve, showing her the mark on his right wrist. "Not what you think," he whispers, eyes pleading with her to trust him.

A few moments more of hesitation, and then she relents. Inside the bedroom, Steve motions for her to hide in the closet, glancing over his shoulder as he does. "Whatever you hear, don't make a sound," he urges. Steve hopes that the "message" they've been sent to deliver won't be heard up here, but he can't be sure. "I won't tell him you're here. But if he hears you—"

Then it's both of them on the line.

He can see tears welling up in her eyes, but she nods, clasping a hand over her mouth.

Something shrivels inside Steve, seeing her terror—terror brought on by him. Even if it isn't direct, even though it wasn't Steve's choice to come here, he is still the agent that brought this down on her. Hatred stirs inside him, bitter and acrid. And as Steve pulls the bedroom door shut behind him, leaving the battered woman in the dark, he wishes he had never agreed to this.

He wishes the mobsters had just put a bullet between his eyes.

He meets Barton at the foot of the stairs and forces his expression into something neutral.

"Find anything?"

Steve shakes his head.

"He's up. Time to finish the job."

Steve hopes that this part will be easier.

Drew has a handkerchief tied around his mouth in a crude gag. His arms are tied behind his back, secured to one of the thick mahogany desk legs, which forces him to sit in a slumped, contorted position. Even so restrained, with Steve and Barton staring down at him, Drew's eyes shine with arrogance.

Barton yanks the gag down, and the first words out of Drew's mouth are, "A bit far from home, aren't you, boys?"

"Could say the same for you these past few days," Barton shoots back.

Drew's face grows pinched, and his eyes turn to Steve. "Wouldn't have had to if they still threw debtors into prison. Falling in with the Starks though." He shakes his head and laughs. "I didn't think you were that desperate, Rogers. Perhaps you'll wind up in prison yet. Or even better: dead."

Barton ignores everything that has just tumbled out of Drew's mouth. "We don't want to see you or Creel in our parts again. Understand?"

"I understand that the Stark family has made a huge mistake." Drew is still looking squarely at Steve. "Mr. Fisk _always_ gets what's owed to him."

Barton punches Drew square in the nose. The force of the blow knocks the loan shark's head back against the desk with a crack. Jonathan Drew blinks, dazed.

"Mr. Fisk," Barton says primly, "owes the Starks a debt for operating in their territory."

Drew grins. "The Starks can go fuck themselves. They won't get a penny from me."

Barton punches him again. "Open up your safe."

Drew sneers at him, teeth stained red. "Do whatever you like. I'm the only one with the code, and I won't lift a finger to help you."

Barton straightens, visibly irritated. Then before Steve even realizes what's happening, Barton has snatched the pistol out of his hand and takes aim at Drew's head. "Last chance."

"Fuck you too."

Barton cocks his head, and then he fires. A deafening bang fills the room and gives way to a blood-curdling scream as the mutilated pulp of Drew's right ear begins to bleed profusely. Barton stays stock still, muzzle of the gun still pointed at the mobster writhing against his bonds.

The scream dissolves into hysterical laughter, the mania of a man before the gallows. "You missed."

"Wrong," Barton says, eerily detached.

"Barton." Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, horrified. It's probably downright suicidal, but Steve's only thought is that he has to stop this.

It doesn't do any good though. Barton doesn't even seem to register Steve, and it certainly doesn't throw his aim. He fires again, and Drew's other ear meets the same fate at the hands of a bullet. _Then_ Barton points the gun at Steve. "Do that again, and you won't even have time to think ‘ _shit’_ before you're dead on the floor _._ "

"Now I don't know if you can still hear me, but this is it," Barton says calmly, gun still pointed at Steve, but eyes trained on Drew. The loan shark isn't laughing now. He's making a horrible choking noise. "Give me the safe code, or don't. Either way, I'm finished with you."

Drew spits blood at Barton. "Rot in hell."

The third bullet hits Drew in the throat. No scream this time. Instead Drew starts to make wet, sucking noises, and he jerks against the ropes.

He's struggling to breathe—drowning, Steve realizes with horror, on his own blood.

Barton has a dark expression on his face, no longer paying attention to the petty mobster. He only has eyes for the safe now. Steve can tell that this wasn't Plan A. Barton really did want the code and whatever was inside.

Barton sighs as Drew's labored breaths get shallower, the loan shark's eyes rolling up into his head. Barton reaches down, tugging the hem of the man's shirt out and wiping the pistol on the blood-spattered white linen.

Steve's partner in crime is just straightening up when they hear the front door creak open and a little girl's voice shout, "Mum, Mum! The mailman finally brought it! My decoder ring came!"

Barton looks at Steve sharply. Steve mouths, _no,_ grappling for Barton _,_ but the mobster shoves him away. Steve's heart races as he leaves to intercept the girl.

_No, no, no_ is all Steve can think, snatching up Drew's gun again and scrambling after Barton. Drew was one thing. But Steve's soul will damned for eternity if he lets this man gun down a little girl in cold blood.

Barton, thankfully, does not have his weapon drawn. The girl is seven, perhaps eight years old, and from the confused knit of her eyebrows, the way her mouth gapes, she knows that something isn't right. The red dress and the pale yellow tights conceal most of her small frame, but Steve can just make out the edge of a black and blue bruise on her neck beneath her long dark hair.

"Where is my mum?" she asks. And when the two men don't give her an answer, she takes a step backward. "Are you friends of my dad?"

"No, we're not." Barton has a hard edge in his voice.

In only a few strides, Barton has his hand on the door, holding it shut as the girl grasps at the knob, the letter with her decoder ring clutched tight against her chest. She doesn't scream, she doesn't wail. And Steve is sick with certainty that a threatening man is nothing new under this roof.

"Stop," Steve pleads, hands feeling like water around the grip of the gun. He's never shot anyone before. He's not sure he can do it now.

Barton spares a glance at Steve over his shoulder, furious. "There's a woman upstairs, isn't there?"

"Let's just get out of here."

"They've seen us."

"That doesn't mean we have to do something rash."

Steve turns his eyes to the girl, hoping, his mind racing _._ He roots through his memories, pulling up the tone of voice his father always used to use when he was scared. "What's your name, darling?"

For a few moments the girl is rigid and silent, like she doesn't know whether she's supposed to answer. "Jessica."

"Jessica, does your dad have many friends visit?"

She nods.

"What do you usually do when they're over?"

"Mum tells me to play outside."

She looks fearfully up at Barton, her hand curling around the doorknob again.

Steve pulls out the only bargaining chip that he has. "Barton, if you let her leave, I'll crack that damn safe for you."

This gives Barton significant pause. "That's something you can do?"

Steve hasn't even seen the safe up close, has no idea what model it is, or how old. It might be a simple rotary combination mechanism that he can open through touch alone, or it may be something significantly trickier, like a lock with false tumbler notches. Steve doesn't care. If a promise is enough to get Barton to move his hand from that door, he'd pledge to break him into Fort Knox.

"Yeah, I can open it."

#

Steve is lucky. The safe turns out to be a rotary model with a single combination dial. Still, it takes him nearly two hours to get the first two numbers—probably longer than it would have if a dead man hadn't been lying on the floor at his feet. Barton shows no interest in moving Drew though. Instead, while Steve works on the safe, Barton helps himself to leftovers from the icebox.

The mobster is considerably more at ease now that he'll be able to bring back whatever is in the safe. He even seems friendly, though Steve hasn't forgotten his threat from earlier.

"Why didn't you volunteer this skill before?" Barton prods, leaning against the jamb of the door, chewing on a piece of steak.

Steve considers his response carefully as he twists the dial with a feather-light touch. "Seems like once people know, I wind up doing an awful lot of favors."

"Well, it's damn handy. I'm taking you to the _capo_ tomorrow."

"The where?" Steve doesn't take his meaning.

"Not where. Who. The _capo_ is who I get orders from."

Steve frowns because he doesn't like the sound of that. Rather than answer, he pours his concentration into the third number of the combination. He presses his ear to the safe and twists his fingers just a hair, hearing the final click of a tumbler falling into place.

"Son of a gun," Barton says as Steve pulls the door open wide with a metallic _thunk_.

Steve pulls the contents of the safe, handing them to Barton, who stashes them in his bag. The safe is brimming with cash. The job would be a success by that factor alone. But Steve pulls out gems and jewelry, letters and ledgers, and several packets of paperwork too. One packet in particular catches Steve's eye, and he holds it in his hands just a bit longer. It bears the silver and red embossed logo of the doctor who cheated him, _H. Wyndham._

Steve is itching to open the packet and find out what’s inside, but after silent deliberation he hands it over to Barton. If there's anything in about Steve inside, then it sounds like this _capo_ person will be the one reading it. And if it's a higher ranking man who gave Barton the orders to come here, then chances are good it is the mysterious voice from the night before.

If so, then they already know about Steve.

#

The reality of what Steve has helped precipitate—assault, robbery, and murder—sinks in as they step outside. He feels numb thinking about the grisly scene inside, such a stark contrast to the tranquility of the street. Worse, Barton may not be connected in any way, but Steve is. If the police trace his debt back to Drew, or if they find out he threatened Steve last night—something Creel can attest to—then there's no way that Steve is cast in anything but suspicion.

"—third building past the old fish market," Steve hears Barton say, muffled, as though his voice is coming through a wall. "Ten o'clock, don't be late."

"Why?" Steve asks through the haze that's descended over him.

"I told you I was taking you to the _capo_. The big guy said to take you if you lived through today. Get you initiated proper." Barton frowns and hikes the bag up on his shoulder. "Do me a favor and be a little more enthusiastic tomorrow. It's not every day an associate gets to meet someone so high up in the family."

"But I thought I was done." Steve's palm goes to the "investment" still stuck in his coat pocket. The bills may as well be drenched in blood now. Steve doesn't think he can bear to stomach using them. He pulls out the bundle of dollar bills and shoves it into Barton's chest. "Take it. I don't want the money. I don't want to be a part of this. Tell your _capo_ to leave me alone."

At first Barton is taken aback by Steve's vehemence. Then he laughs.

"Steve." He shakes his head. Then he makes a show of opening Steve's jacket and tucking the money into the inner pocket. "They really didn't tell you anything, did they? You don't leave the family. Once you're in, you're in for life."


	3. Chapter 3

Steve returns home well before four that afternoon, earlier than he would ever get back to his tenement building when working shifts at the restaurant. And yet Steve feels a thousand times more tired and brittle, as though the slightest puff of wind could tear him apart. To make matters one shade worse, a note has been stuck up in the hall saying the building's water is off until early evening, owing to emergency repairs. He stares at it bleakly. With a layer of sweat and grime clinging to Steve like oily tar, he would do anything to run water and scrub himself till he's pink.

"Not so sure about the new place, Steve. Bad luck about pipes, eh?" Steve hears a familiar voice and startles, seeing Officer Sam Wilson coming up the stairs. "Didn't realize you'd be out today."

Steve feels his throat go dry as he fumbles with his keys. "Filled in at the restaurant. But it was a slow day," he lies, which feels awful. He sees Sam looking at his clothes and changes the subject. "Is it second Saturday already?" He's lost track of time, forgotten about inspections.

Sam sidles up beside Steve. "Funny how it comes around every month."

Steve ushers the officer inside of the main room, kitchen and bathroom all rolled into one. Out of habit, Steve grabs the kettle and goes to get water for tea and then winces as the sink makes an ugly sputtering sound, nothing but air working through the pipes.

He sees Sam grimace at the sound too, but he doesn't call Steve out on his forgetfulness. Sam is content to poke his head into the bedroom and then the back parlor, a _very_ cursory once-over of the place. He's got to be one of the least obtrusive Compliance Officers that Steve has ever been assigned by the DRB. With others, Steve has had to stand by, watching as they rifled through address books and personal letters, had to bear the indignity of their questions about the men and the nature of their relations with Steve.

As long as there isn't a naked man in Steve's bed, Sam doesn't care.

Steve has been lucky. Luke and Jessica have had to suffer nasty officers for years now.

"Gold star as always," Sam says, pausing on his way out and studying Steve. Steve feels terribly exposed, as if the guilt he's carrying with him is tangible. But as it turns out, that isn't why Sam lingers. "I'm not supposed to say anything, but to hell with it. Today is my last time through."

Steve blinks. "What?"

"Giving up the badge and going overseas." Sam shrugs. "The guy they've got replacing me is ancient, a real traditionalist. Be careful for a while, okay?"

Steve is at a loss. Even now, he can't bring himself to admit to Sam that on every other day of the month, he could care less about the DRB's policies. He'll be damned if he's going to live a solitary, celibate life because he's registered with an undesirable match. "I think _you're_ the one who needs to be careful. You've heard there's a war on, haven't you?"

Sam smiles at his feeble attempt at humor. "I'm looking forward to a job that lets me sleep at night." He shakes his head. "To be honest, there's a lot of buzz inside the hive about change. You hear about the senator on board that ship that sank?"

Steve rummages through what he can recall of recent events. "Xavier? Yeah, word is he doesn't like you guys much." In point of fact, Steve voted for him largely because of it.

Sam snorts. "That's putting it mildly. He wants to shut the place down, transfer the funding to research.”

After Sam leaves, Steve sinks down into a chair, letting his fuzzy mind unknot itself. It's better than crawling into bed. If he did, Steve suspects he'd never emerge again.

It's bad enough that from now on Steve will have to endure more thorough monthly visits again. But the prospect of weathering through them while answering to the mob fills him with dread. Is that even tenable?

And to think he'd just escaped one bad arrangement with Drew. It seems instead that Steve has merely traded one for another.

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, Steve stirs, on the verge of giving into the compulsion to lock himself inside his bedroom until the _mafiosos_ come for him. Let them gun him down like they did Jonathan Drew, send their brand of _message_ to anyone else who would refuse the kindness of their employ.

As long as he can keep their attention on him, make them forget the others, Steve doesn't care what they do to him.

Until, that is, the phone rings, and he hears Tony's voice on the other end of the line, asking if he still wants to go bowling.

Steve is tempted to turn him down. But at Steve's hesitation, Tony asks if he's feeling well, and Steve's resolve crumbles. He knows he can't just dismiss the man with coded language over the phone. He wants to see Tony again in person, as much for selfish reasons as for the luxury of speaking candidly.

"Yes." Steve's voice cracks.

"You know where to find me," Tony says.

"I'm already on my way," Steve promises, getting up and searching for his discarded hat.

#

Steve feels a pang, watching the way delight fades from Tony’s eyes as he opens the door and sees the bruising on Steve’s face.

The air inside Tony's apartment is warm, just a little humid, and it smells faintly of flowers.

In many ways, the place is nothing like Steve imagined. For some reason, he pictured the man's quarters as neat and spartan. But Steve sets foot into something equal parts living space and workshop. The sitting room that Tony ushers him into has cloth-upholstered sitting chairs piled high with all sorts of books. Most are practical in nature—manuals on wiring and simple circuits—but Tony's interests run the gamut from ancient history, to constitutional law, to naval combat. The coffee table is similarly filled, only it also houses the half-disassembled remains of a typewriter and a clock. Over the mantle a bare-bones radio is playing _Moonlight Serenade,_ the vacuum tubes glowing gold in the twilight.

Tony catches his gaze and scratches absently behind one ear. "Sorry for the mess."

And though Steve notices the way Tony’s eyes linger on his mottled cheek and the way Tony’s eyebrows are knit with concern, he can’t help wanting to forestall. All of the apologies and goodbyes that Steve means to say die in his throat as he glimpses a little more of who Tony is by seeing his home. "You didn't mention you liked to tinker."

The other man smiles as he gathers up a stack of books to clear sitting space. "Some men have children or a wife. Me, I have projects."

Steve doesn't sit just yet; instead, he wanders over to the radio.

"You built this too?" he asks, marveling at Tony's work, wondering what else the man has crafted or repaired in the room.

"Most of it." Tony is evasively humble.

Perhaps that's one more reason that Tony feels so familiar. They both like working with their hands, taking things apart and learning how they work. For Steve it's just so second nature, but then he also grew up playing with his father's lock sets instead of toys.

If only he could have met Tony a year ago—before he tried to rid himself of his mark, before he went to Drew, before _today_. The gravity of what he's done still hangs around his shoulders, weighing Steve down. Nothing helps, not even the knowledge that a girl and her mother will live to see another day.

"Steve?" He can tell by Tony's tentative voice that the other man wants to know what is wrong, that Steve can’t avoid the inevitable questions forever.

He shouldn't have come here. He should have buried whatever was in his past, burned the bridges and fled.

Oh, but what Steve wouldn't give to rewind the clock, erase what happened, anything so that he could be here with Tony without secrets.

Because if Clint's promise is true—if there is no leaving the mafia and Steve is indeed trapped—then he absolutely can't drag Tony into this with him. Based on what Steve saw today, no one is safe where the mob is concerned. If someone like Barton thought they could force Steve to crack a safe by holding a gun to Tony's head, Steve is sure they would.

Steve feels his throat go dry at the thought, and he stares hard at the radio. The question slips from him unbidden. "Have you ever done something you regretted?"

He’s surprised when Tony answers, "All too often."

Steve looks over his shoulder at the other man, sees that he's frozen, hands in his pocket, hip cocked, trying desperately to appear nonchalant. The tension in Tony's shoulders gives him away. "But _this—_ you and me—isn't one of those things." Steve's heart sinks, seeing the awful look from the restaurant creep back into Tony's eyes. "This isn't something you regret, is it?"

The way he says the words, Steve can tell it's not the first time he's asked someone that, and his heart breaks.

Steve wishes it could be simple. It might have been, under different circumstances.

"Steve?" Tony cuts the distance between them. His dark brows are gathered, confused by Steve's silence.

Steve _really_ shouldn't have come here.

He feels the ghost of Tony's fingertips along his upper arm, a gesture meant to be comforting, but instead it sends a pulse of need and longing straight through Steve. And the next thing he knows, his forehead is pillowed on the other man's shoulder, and warm steady hands are wrapping around Steve's back.

An absurd part of Steve is mortified, and he stiffens at the touch.

"Something wrong?" Tony's voice is deep and calm.

"I barely know you," he confesses.

"Does that matter?" Tony murmurs into Steve's gold hair.

It should. Steve never jumps headlong into anything without a plan. But instead of pulling away, Steve finds himself eye to eye with the deep, searching blue eyes. And like that, the hesitation and resistance inside of Steve melts.

It isn't what Steve ever imagined a first kiss between two people would be like. Unlike yesterday, the air between the two men isn't charged with barely suppressed tension and desire. Neither is it a shy thing, two people testing each other or exploring. And while the kiss is hungry, it isn't in a sensual sense.

It's more of a communion, an exchange of unspoken intimate things. This is two souls baring their loneliness, making themselves naked and vulnerable to each other. Tony's lips are soft and pliable against Steve's, and for that instant Steve feels his fears ebbing like a tide.

Tony brings a hand up, stroking the soft skin behind Steve's ear. With his eyes open again, Steve has a front row show to the war behind Tony's eyes. "You never answered my question."

 _Is Tony something he regrets?_ Steve struggles to form the turmoil inside of him into words.

"No." That, at least, is decisive. "Just what getting mixed up with me might mean for you."

Tony’s fingers trace the lines of his jaw, skirting the bruises, before he’s kissing Steve again. "I'm a grown man, Steve. I know what’s at risk."

Steve’s throat constricts at the misunderstanding. But maybe it’s easier this way. "I may not be able to see you again," He warns. His words are a terrible, heavy confession.

"Then let's make the most of what we have," Tony says. And for once Steve doesn't want to say no to something fleeting.

#

Tony guides Steve into his bedroom, bending over him and pinning Steve to the bed.

This time the kiss he presses to Steve's mouth isn't nearly so chaste. It's almost possessive, as though Tony is determined to claim him as his own—be it ever so briefly. His hands fumble with the button on Steve's pants, freeing Steve and then himself. Long, deft fingers twine around them both, rubbing flesh against flesh, as Steve works Tony's shirt open.

It's wonderful. It isn't enough.

It's pleasurable, but beneath it, there's an ache, a bitter taste of what Steve will lose. And it isn't fair. He wants _more_.

He comes against Tony, panting, toes curling, and Tony swallows Steve's breathy moans, stroking himself till he spills over Steve's stomach. And at first Steve thinks that maybe that's it, until Tony murmurs against Steve's throat, "Good beginning?"

"A very good beginning," he agrees hoarsely, and Tony uses his mouth to tease every _other_ inch of Steve until he's hard and dripping again.

In between the more heated moments of their tryst, Tony curls up next to Steve on the bed, running a hand through Steve's hair and pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Whatever happens when you walk out that door, I'm going to cherish this," he says, voice full of warmth and fervor.

Steve is turned such that he's facing the bedside table—the clock and a photo of three people: a man and a woman at the beach with a child. Family. Probably Tony's.

Without thinking, Steve twists at his wrist, the one with the name and the pale scars: remnants of the failed attempts to extricate himself from a stranger's ghost—hopes for a life that could at least be a shade more normal.

He knows he's never going to have that now. He's old enough to know better. Still...

Steve kisses Tony again, even as his heart breaks.

Because this could have been something beautiful.

#

The sky is still pink with the first rays of morning as Steve knocks on a door he never thought he'd find himself in front of again.

A woman cracks the door open, a hard, annoyed expression on her face. She clearly remembers him. "He won't see you again. Not unless you have the money."

Steve swallows and pulls the cash—which might as well be soaked in red—from his pocket. "I know."

She eyes it and then pushes the door wide for him to enter.

#

Herbert Wyndham's office is not a true doctor's office. Rather, it's a back-alley hole-in-the-wall with odds and ends that look like they might have once belonged in a more respectable establishment. Wyndham shares the space with an abortionist if Steve's memory serves. Removing a soulmate mark isn’t illegal. But practicing medicine without a license _is_.

Not much has changed in the intervening year. An old photo of a mountain and a diploma are still hung on the wall, and in one corner a corkboard has odds and ends stuck to it: Wyndham shaking hands with a tall, fair-haired man, a faded newspaper clipping on colloidal particles and their use in shrinking tumors, and a flyer for healthy eating.  

"You're back, are you?" Wyndham looks over his shoulder at Steve with a curious expression as he rinses his hands. His posh accent lends the surroundings an air of credibility.

Steve wouldn't be, but Wyndham is the only doctor Steve can afford who has been able to erase a name. If he was able to get rid of the last, then Steve hopes he can remove the first too.

"I came into some money," he says.

Wyndham smiles as he picks up a vial and inspects the label.  "Well, you know I'm always happy to help. What is science for, if not to correct nature's mistakes?"

 _As long as the mistake pays,_ Steve thinks bitterly, hissing as Wyndham drops the burning medication onto his right wrist.

In the end, it's money down the drain. Steve had such high hopes, but after an hour Wyndham unravels the gauze to inspect his work and Steve sees that, unlike last time, the first name is still emblazoned on his wrist, no fainter than it was before.

"I'm sorry," Wyndham says. "If it didn't come off this time, there's nothing I can do."

Steve just nods numbly.

He's sorry too.

#

He should have stayed home. He feels empty and raw.

Tony stares at the ledgers on his desk, the jobs waiting to be assigned out and the collections that are overdue. He also pulls out this morning's note from Natasha and smooths it out against the desk. She's turned up two possible names, complete with photos: Daniel Whitehall and Nathaniel Essex. She's also included a recent clipping from _The Herald Tribune,_ penned by the good Dr. Essex himself, attacking the Congressman who had been on board the _Triskelion_. "DRB Proposal Would Have Tragic Consequences." The article reads as one long apologetics sermon on the _moral constancy_ the Domestic Relations Bureau provides.

Definitely a good lead.

But right now Tony has so little heart to chase it.

He knew it would be like this from the moment he woke and found the other side of the bed empty, long since gone cold. When he greeted Steve on the street last evening, Tony _knew_. Something was off. Something was wrong.

It always comes to this. Sooner or later.

He tells himself that he should be relieved, happy that it's over now, rather than later, after they've become too attached—when he has to extricate himself to avoid compromising either family or an innocent lover. But it's never easy. And maybe time has dulled his memory, but this time it seems to ache so much more than the last. Despite having met the man all of two times, Tony despairs at the thought of never seeing Steve again.

He thinks of the moment Steve's nerve evaporated after asking him out, when he started stammering about finishing his shift, and Tony smiles—knows he started falling hard for the other man at that moment.

"Tony?" He's startled by his assistant, Pepper, knocking on his open office door. "Two of your boys are here to see you."

Tony frowns because he wasn't expecting anyone today. "Who?"

"Barton has some business and a new guy."

Tony doesn't remember a new associate, and when he says so, Pepper shrugs a shoulder. "He says you'll like what the greenhorn has to offer."

Somehow Tony doubts that. Unless this new guy happens to know what happened to the _Triskelion_. Tony massages his forehead, willing away the self-pity he's allowed himself to founder in. Diving back into the _Triskelion_ investigation really ought to be the first thing on his to-do list.

As soon as he deals with whatever Clint wants.

"Show them in," he says reluctantly.

Clint comes in first to tackle the business portion, a heavy bag in hand that he drops with a thunk on Tony's wooden desk. "Quite a haul from Jonathan Drew's."

"Isn't that one of Fisk's associates?" Tony asks warily. "I don't remember putting you up to that."

"You didn't." The levity in Clint's voice is tempered with deference as he answers the implied question of _then who?_ "Your boss did. Said Drew had been wandering where he wasn't wanted and that the new guy needed some help learning the ropes. Two birds, one stone. And boy, was it a crash course."

"He didn't mention the job yesterday when we spoke." Odd. "Did Drew put up a fight?" Tony's sluggish mind begins to turn over. He's not sure why Obie would descend from on high to attack one of Fisk's underlings. Certainly it's frowned upon for anyone to do business in a rival's territory. But a petty associate catching the attention of an under-boss? Tony has to wonder if Obie is setting up the chessboard to make a bigger move against Fisk.

"Things took a nasty turn," Clint explains, handing over the contents of the bag one by one. It _is_ an impressive haul. Clint is well on his way to earning himself a pay raise. That impression is only further cemented when Tony starts rifling through the papers Clint presents and finds a receipt from an explosives manufacturer. Alarm bells start sounding in his head.

"These _all_ came from Jonathan Drew?" What would a low-level loan shark want with explosives? Unless he was just the handler. The possibility that Fisk is willing to sabotage the home front has come up during chats with Fury. But to what end? Tony still can't see the financial angle. Unless it doesn't boil down to money—at least not yet. Maybe Fisk is trying to win allies. Tony's skin crawls at the idea of Fisk currying favors from groups like Hydra.

"They came from his safe. The new guy cracked it."

Tony has only a few moments to marvel at the coincidence of another locksmith cropping up so soon before Barton cracks the door open and motions for the newcomer to step inside.

Every fiber of Tony tenses as Steve enters. Panic builds, a gorge of bile rising in the back of his throat, and he can feel his heart stutter. He wills himself to be cold and impassive. He can't have Clint making any untoward connections.

He _really_ hopes that he does a better job of hiding his surprise than Steve. The other man is openly shocked. Tony can see it in the way he swallows, the slight falter in his step as he walks to stand in front of the desk. His hands are white-knuckled and clasped together, but even still they tremble.

But the worst part is seeing Steve's initial shock morph into a quiet, barely suppressed anger.

Clint glances sidelong at Steve. "He's pretty handy. Makes for a decent partner. We could put him to good use as a full-time associate."

"That so?"

What Clint means is that Steve would make them both a tidy profit if they hit the right places. Outright theft isn't something that sits well with Tony. He won't condemn it, but he doesn't encourage it. He _may_ be in charge of a group with dubious scruples, but he isn't running a gang of thieves.

Even though Tony is privy to the fact that Steve could use the extra money, it's plain to Tony that Steve doesn't want to be here. Steve is bristling, but even if he weren't, his words from last night are telling enough. He clearly didn't know about Tony then, or he would have never set foot inside his apartment.

So what's compelled him into coming to Tony's office?

In answer, Tony hears another knock on the partially ajar door.

Tony is still eyeing Steve, trying to figure out what, if anything, he can do to help the other man escape the hook he's been hung on when Obadiah Stane waltzes in, not waiting for permission to enter. He doesn't need it. The older man is wearing a new gray suit and a smile that could dazzle even the sourest of persons. Everything about Obie seems upbeat and glowing, down to the faint sheen on his bald head.

"Tony," he says, cheery. "Clint"—he claps the man on the back—"And _Steve._ " A predatory smile graces his lips as he shakes Steve's hand with a bit more force than is necessary. From the way Steve stiffens and presses his lips together, Tony can tell that there is some sort of recognition there.

Tony recalls that Obie tossed the job to Clint with Steve in tow. If Obie recruited Steve, then it won't be as simple as finding a loophole or a back door to sneak Steve out of, no matter how much he bribes Clint and Pepper.

He's going to have to put on a good show. Frustration builds inside of Tony, but he knows he has to ignore it and put aside the question of how Steve fell into Obie's hands. At least for now.

"I hear I have you to thank for putting Clint up to the Drew job," Tony says, folding his hands and smirking at the under-boss. "Really, Obie. Rumors are going to start to fly that you're pulling special favors for your godson."

Out of the corner of one eye, he sees Steve stiffen.

Obie just laughs at his accusation, a deep, hearty bass note. "What are we in this business for if we can't engage in some good old-fashioned nepotism?"

"Castle will be jealous."

"Castle is in on the next job I have planned for you. It's a simple hand-off, but he'll reap the same benefits."

Tony is about as thrilled as a cat thrown into a lake to hear that. He hates working with Castle, and Castle hates working with him. But he keeps the smile plastered on his face. "Excellent."

"Noon in the usual place, Barton? You can bring your new friend," Obie says, and his eyes linger on Steve just a little too long.

Clint is on board; it's not even a question. But Steve visibly prickles. With Obie in the room, Tony doesn't have any choice but to call him on it. He can see the way the under-boss is studying Steve like a hawk sizing up a mouse.

"You have a problem with that, Rogers?" Tony asks.

Freshly wounded blue eyes turn on Tony, and if anger in them was bad, then the betrayal is a thousand times worse. It is so very hard for Tony to continue smiling.

Steve tries to keep his voice level, but Tony can hear the strain in it. "After murder, I don't see how it could get much worse."

Tony's gaze swivels to Clint. A feeling of sickness sweeps through him, but he fights to hide it. "Did you kill Drew?"

"The world isn't exactly poorer without that sorry son of a bitch."

This is bad.

"Steve," Tony says, "stick around. I'm not done with you." He absolutely cannot let Steve just walk out the door after hearing that. "Have Ms. Potts make you a cup of coffee."

As he follows Clint out, Steve approaches the desk, pausing, face hard and grim. All the while Tony's forced to sit there, grinning like a Cheshire cat, knowing that Steve will never look at him with the same eyes as he did last night.

For a moment Steve looks like he'll say something, but then he presses his lips together and turns his back on Tony.

A hard part of Tony doubles down, knowing Steve won't like what lies ahead, but that it must be done. Another part of Tony, secret and well-guarded, grieves.

Once the door shuts behind Steve, leaving Tony and Obie alone, his godfather turns with arms crossed in front of his chest. "You might say thank you at the very least."

Tony blinks, taken aback, his grin faltering. "For what?"

"Don't play the idiot," Obie growls. "I know what you are. What he is. It's as plain as day from the mark on his wrist. Three good men got bullets to the head because of it."

Tony freezes up and his smile evaporates. Obie's awful words ring in his head like an echo. _I know what you are._ But instead of confronting them, he latches onto the last words. "The murders that I told you the cops were investigating." Now he knows why Obie wasn't surprised. He looks at Obie with new eyes, shocked at the senselessness.

"I couldn't very well let word get out that the boss's son is a fairy." Obie's deep voice is derisive, as though Tony should understand— as disgusted as if Tony shot Obie's men himself. "We followed Drew to the restaurant and saw him meet with Rogers. Then we all saw you leave together. We followed. Tony"—his nostrils flare—"I thought Fisk was planning to kidnap or kill you."

Obie pauses, and for a moment Tony is seven years old again, terrified of his godfather's silence, of the unspoken expectation that Tony will either explain himself or face the consequences of his actions. But there's no explaining this away, not if they were followed all night. Tony wonders what bitter fruit he will reap from Obie's newfound knowledge.

"I could have killed him," Obie says, managing to reshape magnanimity into a threat. "But I saw a way to make him useful and to buy his silence at the same time. So for now, he lives." Obie's eyes are cold. "But see to your father's reputation, Tony. Otherwise I'll step in again, and I can promise you won't like what I do."

#

Once he hears the rev of Obie's car and is sure he's gone, Tony leaves the sanctuary of his office.

He finds Steve in the waiting area outside, sitting on a pale green couch like a military man at attention. A steaming mug of strong coffee is in hand, completely untouched, and he's staring straight ahead at the wall. Pepper is nowhere to be seen. She's always had a sixth sense about making herself scarce when the less savory aspects of the business come to a head. Apparently that goes for relationships too.

"Would you be willing to listen to anything I have to say for myself?" Tony doesn't mean for the self-effacing bit of humor to slip in. There's nothing funny about the situation. Or maybe there is in a cosmic sense. But Tony has a feeling that that will be lost on Steve.

Tony can practically hear Steve's teeth grinding as he puts the mug down with stiff movements. "No."

He expected as much. That does little to curb Tony's disappointment though.

"Don't go back to your apartment tonight. Come to mine." It's not an invitation. Tony makes this very clear. "That's an order."

Steve is livid. Quite understandable for someone who has just lost their autonomy. But it's not helping things.

"Is this some game to you?" he hisses. "Is this something you get off on?"

The accusation cuts through Tony like a knife, but right now he can't let his personal feelings into the conversation. He can sort through them later. Or at least that's what he hopes.

"You'll come to my place," Tony repeats, "because you're in danger. You've got a target painted on your back."

"Thanks to you."

"Yes, thanks to me," Tony agrees humorlessly. He supposes that it's true in a roundabout way. "You're lucky that Jonathan Drew wasn't a _made man_. Otherwise you'd probably be dead already." Tony supposes that that would have been convenient for Obie. Maybe he's hoping Fisk will tie up the only other loose end in Tony's public fling. "Drew's friends and business partners won't take kindly to what you and Clint did."

"Then why aren't you concerned about Barton too?"

"Because Clint _is_ a made man. That comes with certain protections. Protections you don't have as a new associate." Tony unbuttons the jacket of his suit and shrugs out of it, pulling off the holster and handgun that he wears concealed underneath. He holds them out in offering to Steve. “The least I can do is give you some means of protecting yourself."

Steve eyes the gun, revulsion etched into the lines of his face. "I don't want your help."

The stubborn self-destructive idiot. Some of Tony's frustration breaks the surface, and he shoves the handgun against Steve's chest. "I don't recall giving you a choice."

Steve glares up at him for several tense moments, and his fingers tangle with Tony's when he finally takes the gun. There's no gentleness in his touch anymore. And although his words are formal, his tone makes them sound like a curse: "Whatever you say, _boss._ "

#

"Steve!" Luke presses his dirty hands into a towel and greets him as he comes through the back. "Not like you to just not show. You get a bad case of—"

They have a strong enough rapport that Steve knows Luke was about to accuse him of playing hooky. But the playful teasing fizzles out as Luke catches a glimpse of the circles beneath Steve's eyes, the bruises on his face, and the two-day-old clothes. "What happened?"

 _I'm in deep trouble_ , Steve thinks, feels dirty all over, inside and out. But he doesn't want them to worry, not when Luke, Jessica, and Jan are all so helpless to do anything. "I won't be coming in anymore." Steve doesn't have a choice as hard as it is to admit. He has to leave everything behind, start over, hope that Tony and his men lose the scent of him and don't come bothering his friends here.

"Why not?" He hears Jan's sing-song voice coming down the stairs. "Did you find another job? Are you too good for us now?" Steve knows from the lightness of her tone that she doesn't mean it. But the bitter thought that he had so much here, and that he can never go back, causes his already feeble composure to crumble. "Steve, you should have seen all the hoity-toity _white coats_ yesterday—one of them _flirted_ with me. What do you think of _Janet Pym?_ I like the ring of —"

"Steve?" He hears Jessica say as he turns around to greet the girls. He's never heard hard-edged Jessica sound so off-guard before. He half-expects her to sarcastically ask what's wrong with his face, but she's quiet.

"I just came to say goodbye," Steve insists.

But even that isn't right. He sees Jan press a hand to her mouth, eyes getting big and glassy. "Promise you'll come back to visit then." She is insistent and wraps her arms around him in a hug that is surprisingly strong for her size. "It's not the police, is it?" she whispers fiercely to him.

"No, it's not the police," he murmurs back to her. He almost wishes that it was. In a way, a sodomy charge would be so much more clear cut.

"You'll visit then, won't you?"

"Of course," he lies.

#

Steve begins to ascend the stairs to his apartment two at a time. He doesn't have much. He can probably have all the essentials packed in less than two hours. He has a few dollars stashed away in an old hat box. If he's lucky, by tomorrow morning he'll be on a bus, miles out of the city, headed to wherever twenty dollars will take him.

But then Steve hears a door creak open overhead, and an irritated man says, "What happens if he's gone tonight too?"

"Plenty of eyes out. The guy won't get far," says a second deep, bored voice.

Steve's heart starts to hammer in his chest and he presses himself against the wall, remembering Tony's warning about the target on his back.

He thought he'd have more time though. How have Fisk's men tracked him down so soon? How did they know it was him? And with a sick feeling Steve realizes: the woman and the girl.

He's not going to be getting back into his apartment, Steve realizes. Or at least not any time soon. It hurts to think of what he might lose if they tear the place apart in his absence: his mother's engagement ring, letters from his father, or the mantle clock that never kept the time well, but had belonged to his grandmother.

His hands clench into tight fists. The handgun is a heavy weight beneath his coat, a distant temptation, but he knows he won't use it. Not here. Not on unsuspecting men, no matter what their intentions are for him.

So Steve retreats. What else can he do?

#

It burns and it galls him. But Steve doesn't have anywhere else to go.

Or rather, if he's in the crosshairs of two mob families—if he's risking bringing Fisk's men down on not only his head, but also his host's—then there's really only one doorstep in the city that his conscience will let him darken.

He almost turns around when he gets to Tony's building. He doesn't want to owe the man anything. Then again, Steve would rather not wash up a corpse on some lonely strand of a beach. Steve has always had his pride, though, even when he had nothing else. Letting go of it is hard. But he can hear his mother's voice in his head, reminding him that the humble are blessed. So he shoves his pride down—he can't give it up completely—and dials the intercom number for Tony's apartment.

A few minutes later, Steve finds himself sitting in Tony's chaotic living room once more. To think only yesterday Steve had worried he would never set foot back here. To think he had worried for Tony.

The man in question is at the window, parting the curtains with two fingers and peeking out through the slit to see if Steve has been followed. He has a blue folder under one arm and ink smudges on his fingers. Steve's interrupted him in the middle of something.

"Could be nothing," Tony says, pulling the curtain shut, "but there's a car idling at the corner. Probably best to play it safe tonight." He shoves the folder into a drawer and leans against the small writing desk as he faces Steve. His sleeves are rolled up and the tie is gone. He's got stubble on his neck and bloodshot eyes.

Tony is a markedly different man from the one that Steve encountered earlier at the office. He's very much the Tony that Steve had, up until today, thought he was getting to know. There are no smirks, no utterances of _I told you so._ Even the firm air of authority seems to have dried up. Instead Tony's voice is weary to Steve's ear, as though contrary to his orders, he wishes Steve weren't here.

He frowns at Steve as he studies him. "Are those the clothes you were wearing last night?"

Steve shrugs. "I couldn't get a change. Someone was waiting at my apartment." Just like Tony had predicted.

He sees something soft in Tony's eyes, and he motions toward the door to the bedroom. "Look through my things, see if you can find something that fits."

As Steve starts to rummage through the closet, he notices that Tony leaves him alone in the bedroom. Steve is grateful for the space and quiet—that Tony isn't looming over his shoulder. For a time, all Steve can hear is the _tick-tick_ metronome beat of the clock on the bedside table.

Unfortunately for Steve, all of Tony's dress shirts are too small in the shoulders. He tries on two, the buttons splitting horribly, before giving up. He settles instead for one of the sleeveless undershirts which are gaining some traction as stand-alones among the GIs. But then he feels self-conscious about the way it stretches tight across his chest and pulls a stretchy sweater on over it.

Steve lucks out on the pants front. He finds a pair of sleeping pants that are a few inches too short at the ankles, but that have a drawstring waist.

When he emerges newly clothed, he knows he must look ridiculous. But he doesn't care. It feels good to be out of his sweat-stained clothes. Steve's stomach growls then, reminding him that he has other needs that have also been neglected. The scent of warm bread conspires with his empty stomach, driving his feet toward the kitchen.

But Steve almost does an about-face as he enters and catches sight of Tony. The other man is staring into a saucepan, a mangled tin can in one hand—which looks like he has only barely managed to open—and a wooden spoon in the other. Tony's face is naked, pinched and drawn. Steve has never seen anyone who looked more miserable, and it’s jarring. He’s unsure of what to make of it because it seems to him that Tony has gotten everything that he asked for today.

Whatever it means, the expression slips back beneath the surface as Steve clears his throat and Tony jumps.

"Dinner?" Steve asks.

Tony blinks and his eyes rove over Steve, taking in the odd outfit. And then he scratches at his beard, suddenly sheepish. "I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid. Usually I go out. It uh...doesn't really look like what I remember my mother making." He tries to give Steve a half-hearted smile.

Steve doesn't return it, but he does look down at the thick cream of mushroom soup. "Did you add water?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"It's on the can."

"I remember it being heartier, not on the runny side," Tony is a little too defensive.

Steve suspects _not much of a cook_ is an understatement. And for a moment everything but the problem at hand and the growling of his stomach is forgotten. "Do you have noodles or vegetables?" Steve asks, only to be pointed at a cupboard on the far wall where he finds dried pasta and various canned goods. He goes through them with a critical eye, wondering if he can make something halfway palatable.

"I hope you don't have anything against casseroles," he finally says, rooting out a rectangular pan that will fit the function.

"None." Tony watches as Steve dumps the pot of lukewarm soup over pieces of fusilli. Steve can't help but feel the way Tony's gaze lingers on him even as Steve crosses the kitchen to put the pot in the sink. "I'll phone Pepper," he says. "Have her stop by tomorrow with something that will fit better."

It isn't until Steve is sliding the casserole dish into the oven that he realizes the other man has once again purposefully slipped from the room. He gets the distinct impression that Tony is making excuses to avoid him, a mean feat in such a small apartment.

#

They stab at Steve's casserole in silence.  Luke would probably be horrified at what Steve has cobbled together, but it's edible.

The little kitchen table is the only horizontal space that isn't already taken up by projects of some sort, and so they are resigned to sitting opposite of each other, barely an arm's length away. They eat in a not-so-companionable silence, Tony with his eyes studiously down on the makeshift amalgam of pasta, green beans, and leftover chicken.

Which is just maddening. Steve simply cannot understand how this is the same man who grinned as he cinched the mob's shackles tight around Steve's wrists.

"So do you have your godfather kidnap all of your dates, or was I special?" Steve finally bites out, partly because he wants to know, partly because he wants to see Tony's reaction.

Tony stabs at his plate a bit harder than he intends to, and the fork makes an awful screech against the plate. "I didn't know he did that." When Tony does look up, some of the hard businessman is back in his eyes. "What did he say he'd do?"

"Do?"

"To you. He must have threatened you."

Steve realizes that Tony has probably put the pieces together based on their night together. He feels as though he's already said too much. "I'm sure if you asked, he'd be more than happy to tell you."

Tony presses. "I could help if I knew what he had over you, Steve."

"Like you helped this afternoon?" he snaps.

"You came, didn't you?"

It chafes that Tony's right. "This arrangement won't last. If I'm not there for inspections next month, the DRB will have a warrant issued. I'd be a liability."  He could be arrested by any officer or bounty hunter that recognizes him.

Tony scrubs at his face with one hand. "Less than you'd think. Law enforcement gets a pretty penny from Fisk often, but they also get one from us. If you wanted, you could disappear from the monthly roster."

"I could also leave, re-register somewhere else."

Tony shakes his head. "Maybe once this is over. But Fisk has bought men everywhere. The DRB registers is probably how Fisk found you so quickly."

Steve is overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. He wishes he could just burn off the damn mark, but he knows from stories that even scar tissue won't hide it. Steve never asked for this. For any of it. And even though he's been discreet, kept his head down, it hasn't been enough to keep him out of trouble.

"Would it be so bad?" Tony asks tentatively, and for the first time over the course of dinner, he's looking directly at Steve. "If you stayed?" _Like you wanted to last night,_ his eyes say _._

Steve swallows, realizing that while Tony is content to keep him shackled to his family _,_ he is also laying an aspect of freedom at Steve's feet, one he's only ever been able to dream about since he turned sixteen. Steve rubs absently at the faded gray name on his wrist, remembering the first time a Compliance Officer came by, explaining that for as long as he was registered with another man's name— _yes, son, even a dead man's_ —it was his duty to come by— _just occasionally, to make sure you're keeping your nose clean._

His father had passed away by then, and his mother had been livid, waving her hand at the small single room flat, demanding to know just what the officer imagined he could possibly be up to. The man had turned a shade of red, mumbled that the law was the law and that he would see them again next month.

Ever since, every month Steve has been subjected to the visits. And now Tony is offering to make it all go away.

_Would it really be so bad?_

Steve feels frustrated, tears rising in his eyes at the thought. It would be a gilded cage, he knows, with no easy way out. Tony could dangle the inspection register over Steve's head if he chose to be cruel.

He hates Tony. But more importantly, he hates himself because he's going to say yes.

"I don't want to hurt anyone." His throat half-way closes up at the memory of the terrified woman and the wide-eyed little girl. Their faces are burned into Steve's brain.

Tony shifts, his lips growing thin. His blue eyes are flintier than they were moments ago. "I can't guarantee that you won't have to. I want you to keep carrying the gun in case you aren't as lucky as you were tonight." His choice of _I_ _want_ instead of _you will_ is not lost on Steve. "But I can give you softer jobs. And if someone comes to you with work you don't want, tell me. If it isn't from another _capo_ , or one of the bosses, I can make sure you don't have to do it. Is that a deal you could live with?"

There's just one more thing nagging at Steve. What does Tony want in return? Because his skin crawls at the thought of Tony even touching him now. "Do I have to stay here with you?"

Tony blinks, seamlessly becoming the cool mob businessman again. "Only until the tension around Drew dies down."

#

Steve shifts on the couch, turning over and staring at the soft glow of the radio tubes in the darkness, a feeling like cold fire gnawing at his insides, a match for the chill of the air that's creeping into the room. Despite the radiator's constant hiss, it is losing the battle with the storm buffeting the windowpanes. Steve's eyes are tired, dry and burning, but sleep just won't come to him. There's too much on his mind, too much that has happened in so short of a time.

He wonders how long he will have to stay here with Tony. He has no frame of reference for how long feuds last between mobs. He hopes it's something on the order of days, and not months or years. A sardonic thought winds through his head that if it lasts much longer than a week, he's going to ask for a cot because the couch is deep and his back is going to have a kink in the morning.

Steve is finally drifting into a hazy half-stupor, at a time that must be well past midnight, when the telephone rings, a shrill buzzing that cuts through the quiet apartment. It rings only twice before he hears footsteps and the heavy sound of Tony's bedroom door opening.

The receiver clicks as Tony picks it up, but Tony doesn't say hello. He just listens to the muffled sounds of someone else's voice on the other end of the line. Steve can't make out the words, but he does know that the person is speaking fast. Tony's responses are low noises of assent, and then finally he says, "I'll be there in thirty" before hanging up. Over the back of the couch, Steve sees Tony's robe ripple as he goes back to his room to dress. He reappears quickly in a thick coat and pulls down both a hat and an umbrella from the coat rack near the door. Then with the scrape of a key in the lock, he's gone.

Steve sits up, pulling the chain of the lamp near his head, rubbing his eyes at the flood of light. He lets his eyes adjust for a few moments and then goes to the window, watching as a dark silhouette that can only be Tony disappear down the street heading east.

What could be important enough to pull Tony out at so late an hour in such bad weather? There is no doubt in Steve's mind that wherever he's headed, it's for mafia business.

Steve picks up the telephone and dials zero. A sleepy woman's voice asks how she can help him. "My friend just called saying his car has broken down. But I forgot to ask where he was calling from."

"Oh, of course, sir," she says. "Just a moment." He can hear her muffled call to one of the other operators. "The call was from a pay phone near the old fish market."

"The docks?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

Steve hangs up, pursing his lips, determined that Tony and his ilk won't catch him flat-footed again. If they're going to dangle threats and promises over his head, then he's damn well going to make sure he has dirt on them too.

Steve discards the idea of following Tony, at least in tonight's blustery storm. The location of a pay phone won't give him enough information to follow the man at this point. And besides, Steve doesn't have any clothing to protect him from the weather. He wonders what Tony is up to down at the docks. Any number of things could be going on: buying or selling, a theft, possibly even an execution.

And then Steve remembers the folder that Tony had earlier and the anchor on the front.

The drawer of the writing desk is locked, but that makes little difference to Steve. After some quick work, Steve pulls out the file and starts flipping through the papers.

Tony has note upon note on the sinking of the ship that went down in the harbor a month ago, the one that the newspapers said was an accident. There are insurance claims and eyewitness testimonies from the day. Steve is puzzled by Tony's interest in the ship. Had he invested in it? Its renovations had been underway in a wet dock not far from Tony's office space. Maybe he had invested into retrofitting it? Or perhaps he supplied contractors to work on the ship or oversee the security?

But then Steve's eyes widen. He pulls the explosives receipt out of the collection and stares.

Most of the people aboard got off safely. But one person was trapped below and died.

If Tony is responsible, this is a still darker facet of the man.

#

It's half past two in the morning by Tony's watch, and he is utterly miserable. The storm is making visibility abysmal, and he's damn cold. But just like Richard Rider warned, Tony has glimpsed a man in a crimson coat moving on the deck of this ship, a sack slung over his shoulder.

Something is certainly afoot, and Tony has every intention of finding out what.

He palms his gun and steps out onto the rain-slick deck. Powerful waves are rocking the ship, even in harbor, and Tony nearly slips as he tries to find a steady footing. There's no sign of movement on the main deck. There is, however, a light on on the bridge.

Tony thinks that he's being watchful, moving quickly to confront the man. But the tower is large, there are multiple doors, and heavy rain pelts the metal hull, obscuring the sound of any footsteps. By the time Tony pokes his nose warily onto the bridge, the room is dark, and it's quiet but for the faint crackle of static coming from one of the instruments.

His eyes scan the room, but nothing seems out of place, nothing obviously damaged or disturbed.

And then he hears the static become a whine as the instrument—scratch that, the radio—picks up something, the sound of a prim British woman speaking. _"Warnings of gale winds in Trafalgar, Irish Sea,"_ she intones as Tony swings his head around. _"Viking, North Utsire, easterly five or six in south. Moderate, occasionally rough in North Utsire. Mainly fair. Good, occasionally moderate. Warnings of gale winds."_ The audio is looping. _"Warnings of gale—gale winds—"_

Tony's mouth goes dry, remembering the bits and pieces of a radio Natasha laid on his kitchen table, recalling her offhanded mention that someone has been jamming a frequency late at night with British broadcasts. Tony bends down toward where the voice is coming from and sees a crude box and speaker—and a wire running from it.

Without thought he's running, and not a moment too soon. The transmission dissolves into a high-pitched frequency as Tony bursts from the bridge out onto one of the high decks. He doesn't even stop to look down as he vaults over the railing. He's lucky. It's a steep plunge, but it's straight down into frigid, dark water.

The explosion lights up above him, seconds after he hits the icy water, the thunder of the blast and its heat muffled by the waves. When Tony surfaces with a gasp, coughing and shivering, he smells smoke, and his face is bathed in an orange glow as a fire rapidly engulfs the ship's tower like a ravenous beast.

This is bad. At ship number two, someone wants to cripple business here or scare the men who work on the docks. Maybe both. Fury will be livid. Hard enough to explain away one explosion as an accident. Try _two._

But now Tony has a lead of his own: the man in the red coat is the bomber; he's certain of it. Now he just has to find him.

#

By the time Tony gets back from the shipping yard, dripping, freezing, and exhausted, Steve is fast asleep, curled into a quilt with his head tucked into the crook of one arm. His face is slack and peaceful.

Tony draws himself a hot bath and rinses the salt from his skin and hair, all the while wishing that he could curl around Steve in bed and draw his arms around him like he did the first night he was here.

If only he could see that lovely face each night as sleep pulled him under.

Tony sinks under the steaming water, up to his chin, gazing at the green tile of his bathroom. The one night he did get, Steve had drifted off next to him with worry and bitterness writ into the lines of his face—lines that Tony realizes now he is wholly responsible for.

He wonders if there’s a way to make things right, wonders if it’s too late now.

There are things he could do, gestures. He’s been going through Drew’s papers. A lot of it related to Fisk’s business. But not all. Drew made deals with other people to funnel money his way—people like the doctor Steve saw.

If he could pay the doctor or strong-arm him into completing the work…

Tony sinks even further down in the tub and discards the thought. If Steve was angry after Drew, then he can’t see him being any more thrilled about intimidating doctors.

Tony lingers in the tub for quite some time before drying and crawling into bed alone. He huddles beneath the blankets, listening to the storm, wishing and wondering if he could have done anything differently. If there was some way he could have had Steve.

When he concludes _no,_ Tony thinks bitterly that this must be one more reason he's never had a mark on his wrist.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony wakes late in the morning to a quiet apartment. Much as the bed was the previous morning, the sofa in the sitting room is long since abandoned. He finds a note near the door with a bag and Pepper's tidy script and—because he's never given Pepper a key—he surmises that Steve will at least have gone to Obie's job with clothing that actually fits him.

Tony shaves, as much because he's getting stubbly at the neck as to drag his feet. He does not particularly relish the idea of wandering into Fisk's territory. But after last night, he has to follow up on the Red Coat, and the radio manufacturer is the most promising thread at which he has to tug. So Tony takes a cab to the address on the card Natasha gave him, pistol tucked safely beneath his coat, steeling himself for anything.

#

If Tony hadn't come to the shop on business, he would feel right at home. The shop is full of row upon row of electrical curios, kits, and parts. In the back, a gray-haired man has his feet kicked up on the cashier's desk, nose deep in a copy of _The Daily Bugle_.

After a few moments of being ignored, Tony clears his throat, and an edge of the paper droops low as the man casts an annoyed gaze over Tony.

"You wanna buy something?" he asks, looking pointedly at Tony's empty hands.

"I want information."

"And I want a beach house in Malibu."

Tony raises one eyebrow. "Look, Mister—"

"Jameson."

"Mr. Jameson," Tony says politely through grit teeth, "I wanted to know if you'd seen a man in here wearing a red coat."

Jameson scratches at his chin, assessing how desperate Tony looks for the information. Tony's response to that is feigned boredom, and he elaborates, as much to affect a casual air as to butter him up, "Met him at a local amateur get-together. He swore up and down by this place."

Tony makes a point of looking down at the vacuum tubes that Jameson has under glass near the register, looking at the different sizes. He could actually use a twelve voltage filament model. Although it's overpriced, Tony points to it, asking if he can take a closer look.

Tony takes a leap of faith and goes with Natasha's hunch. "Tall and British?"

Jameson still seems skeptical as he pulls the vacuum tube out and hands it gingerly over to Tony. "I've seen him. Came in here with another fellow."

"Did you catch his name?" Tony hands the tube back over to Jameson and nods to the register while pulling out his wallet.

Jameson frowns up at him.

Tony keeps smiling. If he can do this without guns or threats, then so much the better. Less attention and less rot written onto his soul. "I didn't. Just want to send him a thank you note."

Jameson rolls his eyes, and Tony isn't sure whether that means he's bought the lie or not. "I don't know about the guy in red. Only the guy who paid." He places the tube in a brown paper bag and hands it over to Tony with his change. "Name of Jonathan. Jonathan Drew, I think."

The paper in Tony’s hands crunches as he grips it tight. He forces himself to keep the smile on his face. "Thanks."

A link to Fisk. And a dead end.

#

Steve is going to be late for his second job.

His subconscious seems to have intervened, and due to one wrong turn, Steve finds he has walked several blocks in the wrong direction. By the time he realizes that the commercial buildings are turning into houses and that the sounds of the harbor are growing fainter, he has lost all chance of being on time. Ruefully, Steve wonders what the penalty for tardiness is in the mob. He turns on his heel and starts walking back the way he has just come.

It was easier coming than it is going. The wind is whipping up as it comes in off the water. Another storm brewing. Steve tucks his hands into his pockets, keeps his head down, and soldiers on. It's a clear day, but it's cold and crisp and the wind makes everything chillier. He tries to imagine he is a ghost, that the cold is just passing through him. He wishes that everything that has happened over the last few days could too.

Steve can just smell salt in the air again as he reaches a junction in the sidewalk where the pavement cracks like ruined leather and the whitewashed picket fences peel in the briny air. It's there that he nearly plows into another bundled person in blue.

"Sorry," Steve mumbles, embarrassed that inattention to where he is walking has landed him in trouble again. He peers up at the other man and almost has a heart attack when he sees the police officer badge on his hat and coat.

"No muss," says the other man. The phrase is so familiar that it's jarring, and the voice prods at memories. With high cheekbones, bright brown eyes, and messy brown hair, the man's resemblance to _someone_ is uncanny. But who, Steve cannot say.

"Do I know you?" Steve asks.

The other man blinks and cocks his head. "I don't—" And then something clicks behind his eyes. His voice gets half a step higher with excitement. "Steve? Steve Rogers?" He presses a hand to his chest. "Bucky. We used to live on the same street."

Steve's jaw drops. "Have you had the same hairstyle since you were eleven?" It's a stupid question to ask someone he hasn't seen in over a decade and he has an idiotic grin on his face, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.

"I've been told it was cute then and is quite handsome now." Bucky smooths down a bit in the back that is sticking up. "I didn't realize you were still in the city. Thought your parents moved upstate."

"They did. But it never really felt like home up there. So I came back."

Bucky smiles knowingly. "Have you been back long? Been to the old neighborhood?"

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky makes a small _tsk tsk_ noise. "They opened up the best deli where the old ice cream place used to be." He glances at his watch. "In fact, I'm due for lunch, we could drop in....if you aren't busy?"

The reality of what is waiting for Steve comes crashing back, and he bites his lower lip. "Wish I could, but I've got prior commitments."

Bucky smiles, transparently disappointed.

"Some other time?" Steve ventures. Almost before he's done asking, the other man is rooting around for something to write on. But when he can't find anything, they settle for Steve writing Bucky's number on the back of his left hand. Steve promises to call soon, and Bucky says he's looking forward to hearing about all the trouble Steve's been up to, seeming to forget the uniform he's wearing.

As Steve watches Bucky head off in the other direction and the giddiness fades, Steve realizes that he could have asked Bucky for help. He could still run after him, tell him what he's been roped into, see if there's any sort of protection he could get Steve. Then again, Steve's parents moved when the mark manifested, while no one else knew. Steve has no idea what Bucky would think if he saw it.

Steve's fists clench tightly as he wars with himself.

And then he remembers Tony's comment, that the mob pays good money to law enforcement. Steve wants to believe only the best about Bucky. But the hard truth is that he has to be sure before he says something that could bring down more trouble on his head.

#

When Steve arrives, it's to the sight of Barton sitting slouched atop the largest of five crates, drumming his fingers on the wood. "About time you showed," he says, mouth twitching irritably. "Thought maybe you'd gotten cold feet on me."

"I got lost." Which is the truth. Just not all of it.

"Well, then you're certainly not doing the driving." Barton points to one of the smaller crates and then to the rusty-colored pickup truck a few feet away. "Looks like you get to be the muscle instead."

#

Like Stane promised, the job is a simple, discreet hand-off, and Steve is relieved once he realizes it won't be another intimidation job. If all goes according to plan, Barton will be the only soul he has any contact with.

"Probably better if I do the talking with Castle's people," Clint says. "No offense."

Steve takes none. In fact he's happier for it. He stares out the truck window, reading the passing street signs.

"Any idea what's in the crates?"

"Nope." The answer is casual and quick as Barton pulls the truck to a stop at a red light.

"You don't care."

"Not really. I've been part of a hand-off crew before. It's mostly hooch and dirty picture books. Since the boss doesn't take kindly to people skimming off the delivery, better not to be tempted."

“So what, you just blindly take orders? Is that what helps you sleep at night?”

Barton glares over at Steve. “Awful high horse you’re on for someone on their second job.”

“ _I’m_ not the one who almost shot a _kid_ for being in the wrong place.”   

For a few moments Barton is silent, his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel, and then Steve hears him quietly say, “I know.”

Steve hears misery and loathing layered under the words, and he’s so taken aback that he doesn't know what to say.

He swallows and look out his window. They're on a back street and there aren't very many cars. That's by design; they don't want to be anywhere that might draw attention. Before the light can turn, Steve sees a man approaching the car. He's wearing dark glasses and a bright red coat that billows behind him.

"Cli—"

The man in red brings something up that he's been concealing at his side.

Steve shouts, bringing one arm up in front of him as the crowbar strikes the glass of the window. It shatters into a million pieces that rain down on Steve. He's in a half-daze, adrenaline kicking in as the door is wrenched open with a metallic groan. A hand grabs for Steve, but he kicks at the man and hears a loud _oof_.

Barton revs the engine as soon as he sees the weapon in the man's hand. He throws the truck into gear, picking up speed—

Steve is jolted, and his head slams into the truck's dash as another car pulls around the corner slams into them headfirst. Steve can hear a hiss and sees smoke streaming from the hood of the truck. Two men are climbing out from the car, dressed in red and black, both of them with a gun in hand.

Barton, meanwhile, shifts gears, putting the truck into reverse. The crates crash against the cabin wall hard with the sudden acceleration. Steve hears something like an explosion and then the scrape of naked metal on pavement. He smells rubber and sees sparks. They've taken out one of the tires.

"Down!" Barton yells as one of the men in black and red opens fire at them. The front windshield splinters like a spiderweb before falling to pieces like Steve's window.

Barton already has his own firearm out, and he's muttering a litany of _damn_ and _shit._ He pauses just long enough to fire back blindly. An answering bullet rips past as Barton ducks, lodging in the leather seat back, inches from where his ear had been. Steve's hands are shaking as he draws Tony's gun from beneath his jacket. Barton dares another shot at their attackers. But there's another volley of gunfire, and Steve hears a strangled cry from Barton. The other man curls in on himself, a red stain spreading across his upper left shoulder.

Steve hears "hands up" from off to his right, and the man in the red coat comes into view, flanking the truck with a crowbar in one hand, and the gun in the other pointed at Steve's face. Their other assailants are surveying their handiwork and Barton through the broken remains of the windshield. Steve doesn't know what else to do. He puts his hands up slowly, weapon and all.

The crowbar rattles against the truck bed as the man in red drops it over the side. Then the gun is snatched out of Steve's hand. The man in red looks it over, apparently liking what he sees because the gun disappears inside of his coat. Then Steve is hauled out of the cab and tossed to the pavement. He tumbles, scraping hands and the right side of his face from the fall. In the distance, Steve can hear the shrill bark of a dog and the _woosh_ of cars several streets over. He wonders if there is anyone to see, anyone who could phone for help. They're still in a Stark neighborhood, after all.

And if these are Fisk's men, if they're after Steve...

He sees Barton slumped inside the truck's cab. Even after their first job, Steve is still horrified at the thought that he might be dead.

He hopes that someone can at least report what happened here should the worst come to pass.

"What do you think?" the man in the red coat asks over his shoulder, towering above Steve.

Steve hears the creak of the truck's suspension as one of the other men vaults into the back. He picks up the crowbar and pries up one of the crate lids. As he roots around inside, his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. "I think we're gonna be well rewarded for our trouble. Help me move these."

"How's the driver?"

"Not gonna give us trouble."

"And this one?"

The next few seconds seem impossibly long. They might well be his last. Or, perhaps, like his first encounter with the mob, they'll throw a bag over his head. In the end, it turns out to be neither.

"Orders are orders," says the man in the bed of the truck, and he holds out the crowbar, returning it to the man with the gun pointed at Steve.

The man frowns, looking down at Steve. Then he smiles and says, "Wilson Fisk says hello."

The man in the red coat swings the thirteen inches of steel.

Steve thinks that maybe he ought to be praying, but all he can think is, _oh God no_ as instinct prompts him to curl and cover his head. He feels the blow connect with the muscle just below his shoulder; it feels like something splinters and becomes jagged there. He feels another blow connect, but Steve blacks out before his brain can even make sense of the injury.

#

Steve wakes up.

That, in itself, is a surprise.

He hurts all over, but most of all in his chest. He's been propped on his left side, sparing the bruised half, and cotton bandages cover his cheek and a large swath of his right arm. The smell of iodine lingers, cloying in the closed space of the room.

The other surprise is that he knows this place. He has seen the golden damask wallpaper, peeling in some of the top corners before. The little pale green clock and the picture of the family at a beach are just as familiar.

The heavy curtains at the window are tied back, but the gauzy, lighter curtains are drawn, filtering the afternoon light into a warm glow. Steve wonders how long he's been out, shifts to grab hold of the clock to find out, and lets out a cry as stabbing pain shoots through his entire right side. He can't breathe. He can't see straight—he panics.

"Steve?" Tony's deep voice is accompanied by a knock at the door. Then Tony's tired blue eyes are peeking into the room. He's got a decent bit of stubble at the corners of his jaw and running the length of his neck.

"Can I come in?" he asks.

Steve clenches his jaw tight, fighting to keep the pain and his nerve in check. Somehow it helps that Tony stays rooted in the doorway, not advancing or retreating. Just the memory of the two of them in this bed makes his stomach turn.

Steve turns his head to the side and manages to croak, "It's your place."

Knowing that's as close to _yes_ as he's likely to get, Tony enters and draws the gauzy curtains. Outside, the street is bustling with afternoon comings and goings. Farther in the distance, a strip of harborfront water is just visible. Tony moves with a certain stiffness, and when he finally sits on the edge of the bed, eyes still fixed somewhere out the window, Steve can't help but notice the way he winces.

He wonders what _Tony_ has been up to since he last left the apartment.

He thinks about Barton lying facedown in the truck, about the man in red's last words, _Wilson Fisk says hello._ Steve doesn't exactly feel responsible for what happened to Barton, but he doesn't feel good about it either.

"Is he dead?"

Tony blinks, tearing his thousand-yard stare away from the window. "Clint? No. He'll live."

The line of his mouth is a taut frown as his gaze sweeps over the black and blue bruises on Steve's body. "I shouldn't have agreed to send you." He rubs at the crease between his eyes and nose, and when he finally meets Steve’s gaze, Steve doesn't understand the regret in Tony's eyes. This is not the man who sat behind the desk in that office. This is every bit the man he met that first night, alone, with nothing but a paper-thin veneer masking his sadness. "I didn't want to. I didn't want any of this for you."

Steve doesn't understand anything about Tony. He doesn't know _who_ the man is, period.

Maybe Tony doesn't know either.

Or maybe he's lying.

"If you didn't want it, then why did you do it?"

The bed creaks as Tony shifts, grabbing the picture on the nightstand. He stares down at the three smiling people. "Because Obie thinks I'm soft. And he has my number. I've turned down one too many of his big jobs, let one too many of the other guys off the hook. He knew I couldn't defy him." He takes a deep breath. "I swear, I had every intention of thinking up something. But then I found out about Drew. And after you left, Obie made it _very_ clear that you had to be kept close. Had to be kept _quiet._ Or else... _"_

That night that Steve was kidnapped—

Two shots for two suits. Two men who saw a ranking member of the Stark family out with another man, who must have seen that private moment outside the florist's where they nearly kissed.

A wave of nausea hits Steve.

But now he knows. He knows what leverage he has over the Starks. And like every other damn thing in his life, it boils down to the godforsaken mark on his wrist.

"So what?" The temper is audible in Steve's voice. He doesn't care. "This is all supposed to be some sort of _charitable_ way to keep me alive? Because I'd rather be six feet under than spend the rest of my days locked up in here with you."

Tony's eyes widen just a fraction for a few moments. Then they narrow. "I don't want you dead. I don't want _anyone_ dead. I was born into this. I didn't get any more choice in it than you got in the name on your wrist." He clutches the picture frame in white-knuckled hands. "You think I'd want it for anyone else?" His face is open, dripping sincere disbelief and raw disgust. _Self-disgust._ "I try—because I didn't get a choice—because I thought I might as well try to do something good. I do what I can to keep people from dying—to keep the violence from spilling over into families." He looks down at the picture again and his lips press together. "I would never have sent you to Jonathan Drew's _home,"_ he says, full of a quiet rage.

A morbid curiosity at Tony's vehemence overwhelms Steve. "Why?"

Tony opens his mouth, but at that moment, the telephone rings. He hesitates, letting it ring several times before rising to answer it. From the other room, Steve hears his voice take on the cool nonchalance from the office.

Tony's a goddamn chameleon, Steve decides. He's whatever suits him best at the moment.

"Obie...no, they didn't." Tony pauses, listening. "They were _ambushed._ On a job that you sold as low risk." Another pause. "Well, someone knew when and where they would be. And they liked your merchandise enough to take it with them." Half a beat, and then Tony sounds angry. "Clint has the bullet hole in him to prove it." A very long pause follows, and then Tony says vehemently, "They're both hurt, no—no you can't just— Fine. We'll be down there in an hour." He slams the receiver down.

Steve hears the rustle of Tony shrugging himself into a coat. Then he hears the click of the receiver as Tony goes to the phone again. This time Tony sounds unsure as the other person picks up. "Hello?" he says, and then a low conversation follows that Steve can't quite parse.

When Tony returns to Steve's side, he's chewing on the inside of one cheek. "I've got to take you with me. Obie wants the full story of what happened."

"Isn't it obvious?"

Tony smiles thinly, clearly troubled. "Not where Obie is concerned. It's never as simple as a mission report with him."

#

"So what else was in those crates?" Tony asks Obie.

It's bold. Not many people are privy to the fact that Obie occasionally makes some money on the side by running arms with more mundane cargo. But the fact that he's called this meeting makes Tony suspect more is at stake than losing some second-rate booze.

He's in Obie's office this afternoon, which is up the coast north of Tony's usual haunts. Castle is there with his permanent scowl, arms crossed. So is Clint, the upper left side of his torso heavily bandaged. Steve is huddled in one corner, tight-lipped, but Tony is thankful that he's letting Clint do the explaining. Someone that Tony isn't expecting is also present. Jarvis, tall and immaculately groomed, has been standing next to the window throughout their meeting, stony-faced and silent. His chestnut hair is beginning to thin, and absently Tony wonders when he last saw him outside of business.

Once, the presence of the consigliere would have filled Tony with joy. As a boy, Jarvis had teased Tony the way an uncle might, given him hard candy, and cared for Tony when his parents were away or too busy. The night that Tony had sat curled next to his mother’s body, Jarvis had been the one to come and find him.

As an adult, that's all been soured by business. How Tony knows the consigliere's presence is a harbinger of his father's displeasure.

"I assume," Tony presses, "that you wouldn't have called us all together if this was really just a lost rum run."

"I'm on the hook now for five crates of moonshine," Castle growls, not answering Tony's question. "What are you going to do to fix that?"

Tony feels a headache coming on. "Pay our distiller to work overtime. Sell your buyer cheap, watered down, off-the-shelf booze. Get creative, Castle."

"This happened on your leg of the job. You're the one responsible."

Tony bites back the vitriol and forces his smile to stay put. "My guys were attacked. Fisk is getting bolder." He looks directly at Obie. "What are we doing to push him back? What are we doing to make sure this doesn't happen again?"

The consequences, Clint and Steve, are sitting right there in front of Obie.

Obie crosses his arms. "You're certain this was Fisk?"

"I was half-gone," Clint pipes up, white as a sheet and drained. "But I heard one of them say Wilson Fisk's name."

Obie glances at Steve, then asks, "What did these men look like? Did you recognize them?"

Clint shakes his head. "Never seen 'em before in my life. Two of them looked real similar, twins maybe. Kind of looked like Castle if you squinted. The third one was wearing a red coat. Didn't get a good look at his face; he was hooded."

Tony starts at the mention of the red coat. Then he sees that Obie has caught his reaction. There's a flicker of something dark behind his eyes. Suspicion?

It's Castle who finally breaks the silence. "What does it matter if it was Fisk or not? Fact is, the shipment is lost. And this isn't your first fumble, Stark."

Obie grimaces. "I'm sorry, Tony. But he's right. You called off the Lessey robbery last month for weak reasons after months of planning. You didn't kill Rumlow after you caught him embezzling from us, you haven't raised protection fees in years despite my suggestions—"

"They can't afford it," Tony interrupts defensively.

"Squeeze them. You'd be surprised how resourceful people are when they're afraid."

Castle jumps into the fray as if on cue. "Some people might call into question what you're putting first here."

Tony bristles. That might as well be an outright threat. They all know that a made man's first priority is always to the family. His mind races for a rebuttal—

But it's Jarvis who speaks up next, an eye of calm in the storm of anger around him. "Flesh and blood are two of the most powerful binding agents, Mr. Castle. To question Tony's loyalty is to accuse the hand of conspiring against the head."

Jarvis's statement cows Castle, but Tony can still see the dislike and mistrust on Castle’s face. It's as bright as a neon sign at midnight.

"By the same turn," Jarvis says, turning his cool gaze onto Tony. "The hand must be an emissary, the actor carrying out the head's intent. If you've wronged Frank and Obadiah in your dealings, then you need to put it right, Tony."

Tony has a feeling he is not going to like what comes next. "How?"

"Put your resources fully at their disposal. No more excuses. No more special treatment."

Tony stiffens, but he doesn't say no. He can't.

#

Tony helps Steve lie down on the bed again. It's a torturous exercise, and he aches all over, feels like he can't take a deep breath. Tony tells him that several of his ribs are cracked and that it's going to take a while to heal.

"Stephen's going to kill me for moving you so soon."

Steve doesn't respond at first, too lost in the pain. He's fighting to make sense of the meeting he was just in and failing. The tender way that Tony undoes the bandage on his cheek and re-dresses it just makes it harder for him to sort through his conflicted feelings and thoughts.

"Who's Stephen?"

Tony doesn't look up, just continues to blot at the wounds before re-wrapping them. "The doctor who looked you over. Sometimes it's prudent to avoid hospitals. People could be watching."

"Oh," Steve says softly.

Tony looks up at him then, concerned. His fingers still, mid-wrapping. "Something wrong? Are you in pain?"

"No," Steve says, grimacing. "I mean yes, everything hurts. It's just—well, I don't care for doctors much." Hard to when he has so much history with them, little of it for pleasant reasons.

"Sit tight." Tony smiles empathetically and disappears, coming back with white pills and water. Steve accepts them grudgingly.

"So it's true," Steve says.

Tony maintains a carefully neutral expression. "What?"

"What you said, about trying to...to minimize your impact. Stane said as much himself."

Tony presses his lips together and pulls the covers up around Steve. "My godfather has high expectations."

Steve is simultaneously frustrated and intrigued by this, as if now that his story has been confirmed, Tony is unwilling to talk about it.

"Tony, before we left you were going to tell me something—"

"I don't think it really matters now."

"It matters to me," Steve says plaintively. His heart aches, wanting to believe that the Tony he met that first night exists—that that's the real man.

"It won't, come tomorrow." Tony smiles bitterly. "Didn't you hear Jarvis? There's no holding back anymore. If Castle comes to me, wanting you for a job, whatever the job—kidnapping, bank robbery, murder—I can't say no."

"Will he?"

"I don't know what that man would do to get even with me." Tony sits on the bed next to Steve. "I think he'd be happy to burn me or my men though. He'd do anything to climb a rung higher on the ladder. No one I know has moved up the chain as quickly."

Steve doesn't plan to let him get away without answering his original question though.

"Tony," Steve says, persistent, but almost gently, "why wouldn't you have sent me to Drew's home?"

Tony's eyebrows draw together, and a sliver of vulnerability floats to the surface in his blue eyes. "Before he was a mob boss, my father was a bootlegger. He made a lot of money during Prohibition. The real reason that I don't drink...well, part of it, is that my mother always said, ‘Don't drink your own merchandise _._ ’ It was competitive business, though. Lots of cutthroats. I was young, so I didn't know about most of the nastier things my father, Obie, and Jarvis did."

He swallows. "But then one day Dad and Obie were on a longer run, out for several days. It was just me and my mother. Men came to our house and she told me to hide. So I did, down in the basement where they kept the barrels, inside one of the cupboards."

Tony's eyes are glassy. "They made her show them where the operation was. Some of the barrels they smashed open. Some they took. Just before they left, they stood her against one and then shot her point blank. And I could _smell_ it, her blood and the whiskey all over the floor." Steve can see that even after decades, the grief of watching his mother die a violent death has never really left Tony. "For a long time after that, the smell of hard liquor used to turn my stomach inside out. I begged my father to stop, but he didn't listen. When he finally gave it up, it was for this." Tony gestures at himself and the mussed business suit as if to indicate the mob.

"Didn't you ever try to leave?" Steve asks.

"You know it doesn't work that way, especially not for me," he replies, voice full of sadness and self-loathing. "You heard it straight from my father's adviser. The hand and the head. I don't have a choice. If I left, he'd have me killed before I got to New Jersey."

Steve worms his hand out, turns the palm of his hand upward so that his fingers can twist around Tony's. The gray name is just visible beneath the cuff of his sleeve. "What you're born with doesn't have to decide your fate." He desperately wants this to be true.

He'd like to think that given different circumstances, he and Tony could be happy together, mark or no mark. He thinks that maybe there's a glimmer of possibility—that maybe they could. But Tony would have to choose it. There could be no staying here with the _status quo_. "We could leave together," he says.

Tony looks so uncertain, so dazed by the proposition. Perhaps that's fair, given that a handful of hours ago Steve told him death was preferable to his prolonged company.

"I set up a meeting with you and Bucky," Tony says instead.

"How—" And then Steve realizes he must have seen the number on his hand. That must have been the second phone call he made.

"Next week at Sebastian's Diner. If you decide not to come back"—Tony pauses—"Well, I'll do what I can. But be careful." His body is poised, as if he wants to touch Steve, to run a hand through his hair and bend down and kiss him. But he doesn't. Like that first night, he pulls away before there can be anything between them.

So Steve is left by himself, with only the _tick-tick_ sounds of the clock.

#

Tony examines and cleans Steve's injuries each night. His touch is tender and though there's unspoken tension between the two of them the first time he helps Steve dress, the mechanics of the act override everything but the frustration Steve feels in being dependent on someone else.

On the third night, when Steve lets out a hiss as Tony re-bandages his side, Tony suggests that maybe he should bring Stephen back to examine how Steve is healing. He backs off the idea when Steve balks. But when he returns later with bedtime tea, he lingers at the foot of the bed.

"Why don't you like doctors?" he asks.

Steve rubs at his right wrist without thinking. Tony notices. "Bad experience?"

He wonders if Tony has found his name in the Wyndham file, if he knows the ungodly sum Steve paid to try to remove his mark.

"After half a dozen promises, I guess I can't help being a bit skeptical."

Tony purses his lips. "That's all?"

Steve thinks for a few moments. Then he shakes his head. "No. I hate that they all see the name on my wrist as a flaw." That's really something that goes beyond doctors, but it's the doctors who he finds to be the most sanctimonious about _fixing_ people like Steve. As if removing what's on the outside could change him. It's almost gratifying to see them fail. Almost. "It doesn't feel like one."

He decided long ago that he didn't need a mark on his wrist to tell him who to love.

"I know," Tony says. The lack of a name on his wrist doesn't come with as much stigma. But it's still there. He shifts uncomfortably. "But one of the doctors seemed to give you what you wanted. At least part of it. If you needed—"

"No." The word comes out bitter. He's almost certain that Tony has read Wyndham's file now, and he doesn't want to admit to Tony that he's already tried going back. He doesn't want Tony to offer him money for it either. "Wyndham was the worst of them."

"But you still want the mark removed."

"I want the freedom of it being gone. There's a difference."

Tony makes a small noise in the back of his throat, picking up the first aid supplies before bidding Steve goodnight and heading to his bed on the couch.

#

Steve is drifting in and out of sleep as daylight inches farther and farther across the room. One of Tony's books is draped across his stomach, in danger of having his spot lost if it slides off during sleep. But that isn't likely to happen. Steve is listening to the Dodgers take on the Yankees, and the game has gone to extra innings. Tony has moved the glow bug radio to the nightstand closest to Steve. With some difficulty he's able to twist the dial. It isn't much, but it's something to keep him from going crazy while his ribs knit themselves back together.

Tony has been extraordinarily kind since the attack. The radio is just one of many things he brings to keep Steve from boredom. Steve can't tell if it's innate compassion or one born out of guilt, but Steve finds he doesn't really care when the _capo_ turns up one night with a box under one arm, his mother's wedding ring and his father's letters and notes inside. When Steve tears up, Tony asks him if there was anything his men missed grabbing from the abandoned apartment. Steve just shakes his head no, too thankful for words at having his parents’ keepsakes back.

The radio crackles as they go to the top of an eleventh inning, and a reporter's voice cuts into the transmission.

There's been an attempted murder—multiple. A group of scientists was shot at close range. The would-be murderer dropped the gun before fleeing, the reporter says, but he's still at large, still presumed dangerous.

_Bad month to be a scientist,_ Steve thinks. And then: _Why would anyone want a group of scientists dead?_ Steve shuts his eyes as the pain in his chest flares up again, just as the reporter says something about Wakanda and Congress—that two high-ranking officials were among the group, that they would all be dead if they weren't in the Wakandan's car. As a member of the royal family, the woman's car had a special plating.

Then Steve's eyes shoot open as the reporter gives the description of the would-be assassin: red-hooded cloak, dark hair and eyes.

_What are the chances it's the same guy?_ Steve wonders.

#

Tony itches at the small confines of the police station. The windows are all too high and small. Some of the rooms don't even have one, which accentuates the claustrophobia of the place. Tony is seated in the latter type of room for now. There's a spot at the edge of the table where handcuffs would be fastened, even though they haven't opted to use it since he's cooperating. Still, he knows that whatever type of chat lies ahead, it's not bound to be pleasant.

Tony is determined to turn it on its head, though, no matter what they want to ask him.

Because he's seen Nathaniel Essex waiting to be questioned too.

The officer who enters is wearing a dark blue uniform and a serious expression. Tony doesn't recognize him or the name on the badge, so he's not one of the shills that have been bought off before. He sits down opposite Tony and opens a file.

"Mr. Stark," he says by way of greeting, and with a jolt Tony realizes he's heard that voice before.

"Mr. Barnes."

Barnes blinks and looks up from the file. Clearly he recognizes Tony's voice too. "Do you know why you're here today?"

"I got a phone call," Tony says, flashing his teeth, "asking me to come down and answer a few questions."

He'd had Happy drive him down to the station, both so that he could gather his wits, preparing for whatever unknowns might be thrown at him, and for backup. It didn't hurt to show up in style either. Always nice to make an impression.

"You've heard the news?"

Tony arches an eyebrow at him. "Care to narrow it down for me? A lot has been going on lately."

"The shooting yesterday."

"Oh?" Tony's curiosity is immediately piqued. The reports had mentioned a red coat, after all. But how on earth have the police tied Tony to it?

Barnes slides the file over. Inside are pictures of Tony's gun, the one that was lost on the rum run. They've been hastily developed and are dim, but it's clearly the weapon he gave Steve.

"I reported this stolen," he says. Which is true.

"Well, someone tried to use it to kill two scientists." Barnes sits back in his chair, his cold brown eyes lingering on Tony as he slides the photos back across the metal table. "Just a few more questions before we let you go on your way. We'll need to hold onto the gun as evidence, of course."

"Of course."

"Does the name Parker Robbins ring any bells?"

Tony squints thoughtfully at Barnes. "No."

Barnes leafs through the photos in the file and turns it back to Tony. "Look familiar?"

Tony squints at the mugshot, but it's just a filthy, tired-looking man he's never seen before. He was too far away to make out much of the Red Coat the night of the explosion. This man looks slighter of frame, but a coat could obfuscate that. Without seeing him in it, there's no way to tell. "No. Is this who you picked up?"

Barnes doesn't answer his question, just closes the file. "How did you say the gun went missing again?"

Tony swallows. Barnes doesn't really suspect Tony gave some patsy his gun for a hire-to-murder, does he? It's got to be Crime 101 that the gun would be traced back to the owner. Tony has been accused of a lot, been guilty of more, but no one has ever assumed he was _that_ stupid.

If anything, the man in the photo _wants_ the police to think Tony is somehow involved.

"I think that's all for now, Mr. Stark," Barnes says, getting up and holding the door for Tony to leave. "But let us know if the name jogs your memory."

Tony stays seated at the table.

"You brought in Dr. Essex."

"I don't take your meaning, Mr. Stark."

No. Of course he wouldn't. Perhaps it's unrelated. But Tony doesn't believe in coincidence. “I'm pretty sure I know why he's of interest to you."

It's not exactly a secret that he despises the group opposed to the DRB.

Barnes's expression is stony. _It's so silly to disavow a very public feud_ , Tony thinks, even though he's sure the man is practically mummified in red tape.

Barnes is either a great pretender or merely doesn't care. He holds his hand out to the door, a look on his face that intimates Tony should use it while he can. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark. We'll let you know if we have any further questions."

#

On his way out, Tony runs into Bullseye. The station is mostly empty, and when Tony pauses to tip his hat at at the crooked cop, Barnes loses interest in him, heading out the door without so much as a goodbye. He's either very dedicated to his work and has a distaste for Tony's type or...

And then Tony realizes what day it is and that Barnes is plainly headed to an appointment that _Tony_ set up. Jealousy briefly blossoms in his chest, bright and cold like pain.

But if Steve wants another life—wants to risk trying to find his way out— then Tony can't bring himself to stand in the way.

He has more pressing problems.

Scores to settle.

As the chime of the bell on the door dies, Bullseye turns a bored, irritated eye on Tony. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and he blows smoke out at Tony before saying, "I know that look. What do you want, Stark?"

"I want to talk to Robbins. Off record."

"And why the hell would I do that for you?"

"Because there's a fifty in it for you."

"Oh." He grins. "Well, that's different. Right this way, Mr. Stark."

#

He's not the Red Coat that Tony saw that stormy night on the docks. Tony is sure of it now, seeing the man in person. His stature is all wrong.

He is, however, the man who took a crowbar to Steve. Tony can't bring himself to feel even a shred of pity for the other man. But he thinks that maybe he should.

Parker Robbins looks terrified.

"He told us to go unload the crates. But when Simon and Eric went to go get them from the truck, he just _shot_ them. Both of them, right in the back." He's a young man, barely a day older than twenty, if that. He gives a hoarse, humorless laugh that sounds more like a strangled choke. "He said I was lucky. Said he liked my coat and that it would be a shame to get blood on it. Then he told me that if I wanted to live, I'd better be useful. He said he had a job."

"Who is _he_?" Tony asks. "Fisk?" He can't see Fisk getting his hands this bloody if he can pay someone else to do it. Something seems off.

"No." Robbins's voice stutters like he's outside and it's minus twenty.

"But you said, 'Wilson Fisk says hello.' Didn't you?"

"That's just what he told us to tell them."

Tony is puzzled. If the hijacking wasn't a revenge hit, then what was it? Was it a bluff? A distraction? Has Fisk been involved in any of this? He starts to despair that this will be another dead end like the electronics shop.

"What was this guy's name?"

"I don't know. He never told us and we never asked, limey bastard."

Tony feels his heart stutter.

Maybe not such a useless crumb trail. "A British guy?" Robbins nods and the comment about the coat clicks. "Crimson coat?"

"Yeah."

His mind races. "Where did he meet you for the delivery drop?"

#

It isn't until Happy has them halfway to the address that Robbins gave him that Tony realizes the other man was far more shaken over two murders than the average low-life would be. But Tony can't go back now and ask. He files it away as one more thing that doesn't add up, one more thing on a very long list.

#

A cacophony fills the air of the diner—glasses clinking against tables and metal forks and knives scraping against heavy porcelain plates. Steve stares at the menu before simply ordering coffee. Mostly he wants to have something warm to cup between his hands. As he waits, he thumbs through the day’s paper, scanning the headlines.

One of them is about the shooting. Steve studies the picture, of the frustration and fear on each of the scientists’ faces—everyone but Xavier, who looks tired and wan. One of the scientists looks passingly familiar, and Steve tries to pin down where he’s seen him before—maybe one of the specialists his parents took him to see?

Steve pulls his nose from the paper when he hears the squash of someone sliding onto the red padding of the seat opposite him. Bucky looks like he hasn’t slept in a few days, and when he goes to hang his hat on the peg next to the booth, he nearly misses. His brow is creased, some  problem riding heavy in his thoughts. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods as he picks up a menu.

"So do you want to tell me why a certain Mr. Stark set this up instead of you?" Bucky asks, ordering coffee as well.

_Because he's a stubborn fool,_ Steve thinks. But what he says is, "I got hurt in a fall. Been bedridden for several days."

Steve sees a guarded suspicion in Bucky's eyes that wasn't there a week ago when they first ran into each other again.

"How do you know him?" Bucky asks.

For a moment Steve thinks maybe he could tell Bucky everything, about his mark, and Tony, and that he suspects that the man may be involved in some sort of insurance scheme with ships on the dock front. But then he thinks of Tony, staring out the bedroom window like a lost boy, about how he lost his mother, about how Stane and Castle ripped into him for being soft.

And everything just lies stillborn on his tongue.

"We live in the same building." These days that's not _exactly_ a lie. "He offered to help with some of the day-to-day things while I was on the mend." Also, strictly speaking, not a lie.

Bucky's shoulders lose a little of their tension. "How'd it happen?"

So Steve tells Bucky about waiting tables, embellishing one of the many times he's tripped. Bucky smiles, and they talk about their lives, about how Bucky can't believe he's stuck in such a dead-end job—wasn't he going to be an artist? Go be an animator at Disney?

It's nothing. Pleasant nothings, yes. But it's all empty and hollow in the scope of things.

#

As Bucky and Steve are leaving the diner, they run into two of the most unexpected people on their way inside _._ Frank Castle, ranking member of the Stark mafia, with another policeman in his blues.

"Bullseye." Bucky seems just as surprised to see the two of them together. His eyes slide over to the mobster.

Castle tenses under Bucky's gaze, and he fixates on Steve like a hawk hunting a mouse. He clasps Bullseye on the back and says, "Sorry, but I'll have to take a rain check." Then he holds out a hand to Steve as if to shake.

When Steve takes his hand, it feels as though a cold vise has clamped down on his palm.

"I've been dying to get a word with you alone, Rogers," he says, all teeth and shark-like eyes.

#

As Steve follows Castle, descending into a dank sub-basement, Steve feels his skin prickle. He wants to ask Castle how he’s on such friendly terms with a cop, but he knows that would be foolish. The question would get thrown right back in his face. And Steve doesn't even begin to know how he would answer.

At the bottom step, Steve sees a man wrapped in rope, a dirty rag tied in his mouth as a gag.  Steve feels a pang of regret at the sight. He should have spilled at least some of this to Bucky. From the way that Bucky seemed just as surprised at seeing Castle and Bullseye together, Steve thinks his childhood friend could be trusted not to be one of the crooked cops.

"Who's this?" he asks Castle.

Castle sniffs, picking up a splintered, broken broom handle that's lying in one corner. The wood of the handle is a faded red color, like rust.

"This is Jason Macendale," Castle says in a purr. "One of Fisk's middlemen." Castle rips the gag off, and the frightened man gulps down several shaking breaths with his mouth wide open.

"I'm a made man." His voice is breathy, a shade of uncertainty in the knit of his brow. "You'll pay for this."

Castle ignores him, twisting the broom in his hands. "Macendale here processes most of Fisk's ill-gotten goods. Isn't that right?"

Macendale doesn't say anything this time.

Castle hunches down in his prisoner's face, voice dangerous and low. "What happened to the rum shipment last week?"

The man's eyes widen like saucers. "We never intercepted any bootleg runs."

"Where did you take the crates?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" The prisoner's pitch gets an octave higher as Castle frowns. "I swear! Nothing like that has come through!"

"Let's make a deal," Castle says, cold and callow. "You tell me what I want to know. If you do, you get to go. If you don't, I work my way through your supply chain till one of your people squeals."

"Good luck." Macendale erupts into hysterical laughter. "You won't find anything. What the hell would we want with some piss-poor bootleg shipment?"

Castle straightens, and there's little warning before he swings the broom handle, smashing it into Macendale's face. Steve hears a crack, and the man's nose is broken and bleeding.

"Steve," Castle says, motioning toward him, "got to be on the receiving end of your little raid. He took quite a beating from your boys. I wonder how he feels with you sitting here, all trussed up, ripe for taking his revenge. Maybe he can do a better job of prodding your memory."

Castle doesn't consult Steve. He doesn't even look at him. He just hands the broom handle over.

Steve takes the offering reluctantly. "Is a shipment of rum really worth this?" he asks Castle, half under his breath.

Castle turns a cold stare on Steve, wordlessly asking why Steve is questioning orders. "Head and the hand," Castle reminds him. "Is Tony committed or not?"

No. Steve wants to throw down the broom and storm out. He doesn't want to do this. But he remembers Tony's chilling words. _I won't be able to keep you off of jobs you don't like._ And this is it, exactly what Tony warned him of.

"Do it," Castle orders.

Steve feels one more piece of himself die as he hits the bound man.

#

The address of the warehouse isn't far from the water. Happy throws the car into neutral in front of a warehouse that looks all too familiar. In fact, Tony realizes with mounting anger as he climbs out, he's been here recently.

"René!" he shouts, throwing a door open. The Frenchman isn't in the front office area, so Tony storms into the back part of the building. He searches amid rows and rows of shelves piled with crates. The entire place smells of sawdust. "Duquesne, you bastard, come out here and face me!"

But the warehouse just echoes back at him, empty.

Until he hears a quiet, pitiable, "Help. Help."

Tony follows the voice and almost wishes he hadn't. He finds Duquesne lying on the floor, cuffed to a metal rack, smelling like stale piss. There's a corked bottle of something clear beside him, but it's clear the man hasn't had anything to drink in days. His lips are cracked and dry. And when he chokes out, "Help me" again, it is a dry whisper, like wind over grass. "Water."

Tony turns on his heel, and when he returns to the man, he's got a wine glass filled to the brim with whatever it is that comes out of the tap in the bathroom sink. Tony's pretty sure he wouldn't drink it, but he's also pretty sure it's potable.

He helps Duquesne sit up even though it looks like it causes him a great deal of agony to do so. When offered the glass, Duquesne gulps the water down like a fish, and Tony has to go fill the glass three more times before the Frenchman finally puts it down, choking and spluttering.

Tony sits back on his heels, watching as Duquesne raises a shaking hand to his mouth, wiping away the wetness from his chin and the pencil-thin mustache he's worn for as long as Tony can remember. The man always did care for presentation.

"What happened?" Tony asks flatly, in a tone that says he will brook no lies or evasiveness.

"You must understand," Duquesne says, voice still hoarse, "With the war and imports—it has been hard."

"Hard enough that you'd risk double-crossing the family?" Tony asks skeptically.

"I didn't know!" Duquesne protests. "They only wanted to use my warehouse as a drop site. I thought it would be easy money."

"Who? Fisk?"

" _Non_ , it was two Englishmen."

Tony goes cold. "Jonathan Drew. Was he one of them?"

"Likely; the other one called him Drew. Drew was the one who paid, always in cash. But he was just the money handler; it was clear to me that the other one was calling the shots."

"And his name?"

Duquesne looks helpless. "I don't know. Never got it."

"How long has this been going on?"

Duquesne shuts his eyes. Perhaps he thinks Tony will finish the job for the two Brits once he says, "They've been running supplies through my warehouse for months."

Tony looks down on Duquesne's broken legs. "An arrangement that came to an end, I take it?"

"Yes," the Frenchman says miserably.

Tony knows there will be hell to pay for this. If Fisk has had a foothold in his neighborhood, it's going to look even worse for him when this comes to light. And he's sure it will. He picks up the clear bottle. There's nothing on the glass, not even a label. For a moment his vision goes dim, and all he can think about is how Clint and Steve nearly died for cheap liquor.

Maybe Steve is right about leaving...

Tony is certainly no closer to solving the harbor incidents. And he fails to see any connection between this and the ships sinking.

"They said I ought to keep one—a gift for my generous hospitality." Sarcasm bleeds from Duquesne's words as he watches Tony twist the bottle in his hands.

"Are you that partial to wine that you wouldn't drink it on your deathbed?"

"Smell it for yourself."

Tony frowns, then uncorks the bottle. Without doing more, his nose is immediately flooded with the smell of kerosene. He grimaces and sticks the cork back in. The fumes are potent enough to render Tony lightheaded, but part of the dizziness is no doubt also rooted in the question of why Obie would want to smuggle _kerosene_ and why on earth the Red Coat would want it.

"I should have known." Duquesne stares hard at the bottle in Tony's hands. "I should have seen what he'd do coming. Drew, he didn't always seem so fond of the other man. Toward the end, I could see that something was fraying between the two. The man in red threatened Drew the last time they were here together, said something about not helping his daughter anymore—that Drew would be ruined."

Tony looks up sharply at Duquesne. "He knew Drew's family?"

"It sounded that way."

Tony gets to his feet.

"Please, you can't just leave me here," Duquesne pleads.

"I'll send someone to help you," Tony promises, even though it's more than the rat is worth. But he's been a useful rat.

Tony sprints for Happy and the car, dreading that he's about to break the only rule he has. But it's his last lead.

He's got to pay a visit to Jonathan Drew's family.

#

Everything is tense, and there's uncomfortable silence as Tony sits with Merriam Drew in their front room. Outside, they can hear the shouts and shrieks of children playing. Happy is several doors down, waiting for Tony where the black car won't be a looming threat across the street.

Tony has taken great pains to be as cordial and nonthreatening as possible.

That doesn't make it any easier to broach the topic of the widow's late husband or his business associates, especially when he can't lead with a line like "I am so sorry for your loss."

Because Tony really isn't sorry.

Instead he says, "I am sorry for what you and your daughter have gone through." He takes her hand in his, and when she doesn't flinch away, he takes that as a good sign.

"My husband wasn't perfect," she says. "I know he tried to do what he thought was best..."

"But?" Tony asks. He knows there's always a but when something like that gets said.

"But he would get frustrated. There was so little we could do about Jessica's condition. And sometimes Jessica—sometimes she was the one he took it out on." Merriam isn't crying, her eyes dry, but her gaze is focused inward, and from her expression, she doesn't seem to like what she sees. "He brought the doctor around to help. He seemed to know what he was doing. He'd splint things, and he knew how to give stitches..."

Tony feels ill. "Did you ever catch his name?"

She shakes her head. "He always called himself ‘the good doctor.’ He promised that he could help with her condition. And he did, in a way. But it wasn't enough. He wanted more from Jon before he continued with the treatments. And Jon just got angrier, said he was holding out on us. I wasn't so sure we should go through with them. Jon was stubborn. He reminded me that things would only get worse as Jessica got older. But—" she adds, closing her eyes, "But I think the treatments hurt Jessica. I think the man was using _acid_."

Merriam opens her eyes again, and they're glassy. "He said he was a _doctor_ , but what kind of a doctor does that?"

Tony tries to make sense of all this, to put puzzle pieces together, but nothing seems to add up. He feels a dull headache starting behind his eyes. He's just about ready to give up, go back to square one, when the glass of the window shatters and gunfire erupts.

He goes to the floor out of instinct, feels the thrill of fear in his veins.

Tony hears the screech of tires and the roar of an engine.

He smells blood.

Merriam is on the floor too, her dark, long hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes are open, but her pupils are too wide. They stare blankly back at Tony. She's gone.

Tony tries to keep himself in the present, but the dark hair and the blank expression draw up memories. Tony can't keep them at bay, and he feels a child's terror overtaking him.

_This is all your fault,_ he hears the dead woman's voice in his head. _You should have never come here. Nothing good happens when you drag women and children into the thick of it._

_"Mum!"_

The scream isn't his.

His thoughts are going muddy, and his hearing is growing fainter. He looks down, sees blood spreading across his shirt and on his hands. Shock, then. When he looks up again, a little girl is crying, her small, shaking fingers on Merriam's face.

Then he hears another voice, dragging him out of his hazy stupor.

"Tony?" Happy's big, broad hands are helping him up, pulling him away from the dead woman's accusing gaze.

"Hap." Tony is so glad he didn't drive here by himself.

He needs to get to his office, he realizes. He needs to start sending out alerts, mobilizing people. If Fisk wants a goddamn war, then he's welcome to it.

But then Tony looks down at the little girl crying on the floor and feels like a monster. He can't leave her here, not when he's responsible. He tells Happy to take her to the safest place he knows, the place he sends everything that needs to be looked after. "Take her back to my place. Call Pepper, tell her I need her. She'll know what to do."

"You sure?" Happy sounds worried. "Drew may be dead, but she's still the daughter of one of Fisk's guys."

"I wouldn't care if she were _Fisk's_ daughter. She isn't safe here. Do it, just until we can find who's behind this and set up a safe place for her."

"What about you?" Happy is running a critical eye over Tony. Tony knows he can see the bloodstains.

Tony waves a dismissive hand at him and starts limping off to look for a telephone. "I'll be fine," he lies through his teeth. "I can call a cab."

And possibly bleed out all over it.

Happy looks horrified at the thought. "You should go to the hospital."

"I'll be fine," Tony snaps. "Go."

And because Tony is his boss, Happy doesn't argue further. He just nods and drags the girl, screaming and kicking at him, out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony is in the small bathroom of his office. He's already ripped the blood-soaked shirt off and and has it hanging over the sink, dripping like a grisly butcher's rag. It is times like these Tony wishes he drank because something strong to curb the pain as he digs for the bullet near his hip would be a mercy.

When he finally drags the piece of lead out of his body and lets it tumble into the sink with a clink, Tony feels ready to pass out. He bandages the wound as best as he can with a first aid kit and shrugs into a second shirt, reclaimed from a pile of dry cleaning that he's left for Pepper.

When he walks back out into his office, blotting the bloody cuts on his hands with a rag, he's shocked to see Steve. "What are you doing here?"

Steve eyes the bloody rag in Tony's hands, pulling a crumpled bill out of his pocket and putting it on Tony's desk. "From Castle," he says. "For my _help_."

Tony stares at it. Steve's face is a cold mask, and that isn't a good sign. "He pulled you into something?"

Steve nods. "An interrogation. He's set on finding those missing rum crates." Steve's eyes are still fixated on the bloody cloth in Tony's hands. "You've been busy too?"

"Yeah." Tony's voice is soft. He looks down at the blood, at the white rag that's been stained bright red. And for several long moments he stands frozen, lost in the way his childhood and Merriam lying dead in front of him twist together. Guilt is layered on top of old fear, and together they are a terrible weight in his heart.

"Tony, you have a choice. You don't have to stay here."

_Run away with me_ is what he means.

A muscle constricts in Tony's throat. Even if he was foolish enough to risk his father's retribution, Tony can't. He wishes he could. But he has people depending on him to hunt down whoever is behind the explosions—even if those people don't realize their well-being is in his hands.

"You know what my answer is," he finally says. "There's no life outside of this for me, Steve. But I won't try to stop you."

Disappointment flickers in Steve's blue eyes, and that hurts.

Mostly it hurts because Steve thinks he can be better than this, but he can't. It's written into his blood, inherited right along with his bad heart. If Tony hadn't broken his rule, Merriam would, in all likelihood, still be alive. If not for Tony, maybe her daughter wouldn't be an orphan.

"Whose blood is that, Tony?" Steve asks.

_Mostly mine,_ he thinks. He's pretty sure that some of it is Merriam's though.

Steve's lips thin when he doesn't answer. And if it were Tony in Steve's place, he'd assume the worst too.

"There's always a choice," Steve says. "I don't understand why you'd _choose_ to stay if Stane is going to bloody your hands."

Maybe Tony is a masochist deep down. Maybe he thinks confession can somehow absolve him. He forces a faltering smile. "This wasn't Obie. It was all me, Steve."

Steve goes dead-eyed. "Then I guess I really was wrong about you."

It's the closest thing Tony gets to a goodbye from him.

#

Tony is still sitting in his office as the sun sets, lost in a daze, part broken heart, part broken body, when the phone rings.

"Tony." The voice on the other end of the line is his father's. Tony can't remember the last time they've actually spoken, but the tone is all too familiar. It's stern and it's disappointed, and it's rattled around in Tony's head ever since he was ten, reminding him that he's never been able to live up to his father's expectations.

"Yes?"

"It's come to my attention that someone in the family has been talking to the police."

Tony feels a cold sweat start to come over him. If he's referring to the meeting that Tony set up with Barnes and Steve—

"Jarvis also told me about your last job. If you're involved in this at all—"

"The leak isn't coming from me," Tony says vehemently, and his mind is racing, trying to sort who it could be. Or, more importantly, who could spread the rumor about Tony far enough up the chain to reach Howard.

His mind immediately goes to Castle.

"If I find out that you're lying to me, Tony, you know what I'll do."

Tony swallows, his mouth dry.

So this is what he stayed for. The irony is not lost on Tony. Damned if he does, damned it he doesn't. He wonders if the words of all sons mean so little to their fathers.

"I know, sir."

Tony hears the line click and the buzz of the dial tone, his father's curt dismissal.

_This family can't afford to be soft._ That's what his father had told him, a month after his mother had died, when Tony was still consumed with grief. At the time _family_ had just been the two of them. At the time, he meant that Tony needed to grow a backbone. The bootlegging business couldn't go on without someone to fill Maria's shoes. And even though Tony begged him to stop, worried that the men would come back, Howard refused to budge. _We don't run away if someone threatens us. We don't give up._

Tony had cried.

Tony thinks that from that point on, he was probably always destined to disappoint his father.

#

Twilight is settling over the waterfront when there's a knock on his door. Tony slides his hand into a drawer, feeling the cool grip of a gun, before he tells whoever it is to enter. He lets go of it when Clint limps in, looking as relieved as Tony feels. "Those stolen crates have turned up again. I just got word that they're down by the dry-docked _Columbia."_

"You're sure it's them?" Tony feels his mouth go dry, and maybe it's his imagination, but he thinks his bad heart starts to beat erratically. There's going to be an attack on a third ship, he's sure of it.

"Positive. And get this, Castle—or someone who looks a helluva lot like him—has been sniffing around near the ship."

_Castle._ Great. As if Tony didn't have enough to worry about with the mysterious Red Coat.

Nothing about this makes sense. He can't connect the dots, and it's driving him mad. Maybe Nathaniel Essex is using Fisk as a front for his scientific vendetta. Maybe Castle is as bad as Duquesne and has been bought out. Tony feels the maddening creep of paranoia.

"Stay here," Tony says, shrugging himself into his trench coat. He pulls the gun from the drawer now, holstering it at his side.

"But—" Clint protests.

Tony looks very pointedly at the sling on Clint's arm, and the blond man sighs. "Fine. But what am I supposed to do here?"

Tony smiles at him, a bit of swagger that is unfortunately only surface-deep. "Well, since Potts is out, I could use someone to man the phone."

Clint makes an undignified sound. "Nobody is going to be calling here this late."

"I might if I need back up," Tony says, and he gestures toward his chair. "Come on, try it out, see if it suits you."

Clint flushes, staring between Tony and the empty desk. It doesn't take long for his pride to win out, though, and Tony sees the hint of a smile beneath the wince as he gingerly lowers himself into the chair and runs his hands over the waxy finish of the wood. Clint was always trustworthy and loyal, but Tony never doubted he had his own aspirations.

_It suits him_ , Tony thinks absently, buttoning his coat. He's sure that Clint will land on his feet, no matter what. But if Tony doesn't come back from this, he hopes that Clint does well for himself.

#

Steve goes to get his things. He's never had a key to Tony's apartment, but it's not as if locks have ever been a serious deterrent. He lets himself in with the bobby pins he still carries on him out of habit.

It will be easier, collecting his things while Tony finishes whatever vile business he's up to. Steve is intent on never setting eyes on the other man again. He's tired of being lied to and of guessing at what really goes on behind Tony's eyes.

He thinks it will be a simple in-and-out. But as Steve walks into the apartment, he hears muffled sobbing coming from the kitchen—a girl's sobbing.

Jessica Drew is sitting at Tony's kitchen table, crying into Pepper Potts's shoulder. The red-haired woman is smoothing the girl's straight black hair, and Pepper starts when she looks up and sees Steve looming in the kitchen doorway.

"What happened?" Steve asks.

A brief war wages on Pepper's face. But trusting him seems to win out. "I don't know. Happy dropped her off." She's still holding the girl tight. "I couldn't ask. He was in a hurry, said he had to go find Tony. I've only seen Hap like that once before, and it was bad."

Steve takes a chair opposite them.

"Jessica?" he tries softly. She looks at him with red-shot eyes that make the emerald green of her irises stand out all the brighter. In that moment, Steve has a sickening moment of clarity. Tony won't tell him whose blood was on his hands. And now Jessica is sitting in his apartment.

And so help Steve, if Tony's murdered her mother in cold blood—if he's done exactly the kind of thing he swore to Steve he'd never do—if he was lying through his teeth—then Steve can stomach looking him in the face one more time. He's going to go back and beat Tony bloody with his own two fists.

"He wanted to know about my doctor," Jessica says. "He was asking my mum about him. She told me to go upstairs, and I did, but then I heard guns and a car...and then—and then the window was broken and they were both bleeding." Jessica presses her face back into Pepper's shoulder.

The revelation takes Steve by surprise. "Why did he want to know about your doctor?"

"I don't know. But he asked if she knew his name. Maybe he needed his help removing a name too..."

Steve blinks. And then as gently as possible, he asks, "Jessica, may I see your right wrist?"

She rolls up her yellow, long-sleeved shirt's cuff and shows him an inky black mark and an all too familiar discolored patch of skin where a last name would have once been. It reads, _Carol._ He's only seen one doctor's work produce that kind of result.

Wyndham. But what the hell does Wyndham have to do with any of this? Why would Tony be so interested in him? Steve's mind churns.

And then Wyndham's words echo in his mind. _"What is science for, if not to correct nature's mistakes?"_

And he thinks of the proposals to do away with the DRB, the core of Congressman Xavier's platform—a congressman who was nearly killed twice.

Steve gets up, feels like he's wading through deep water as he goes to Tony's writing desk. The lock's tumblers are familiar, and they give way easily to Steve. He roots through the files until he comes to the one he glimpsed as he pulled it from Jonathan Drew's safe.

Inside he finds a brief summary from Tony. _Operating without a license issued in the state of New York. Opportunity to blackmail? Have him complete the work he started on Steve? History of ill repute. Several eugenics publications redacted from the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine._ And there’s a clipping, bearing Pepper’s neat handwriting, stating, “Might be useful for leverage.” Steve finds he’s familiar with the subject: colloidal particles. But this clipping highlights the business breaking apart—of Wyndham and his partner going their separate ways—of his partner playing a large role in getting Wyndham’s papers redacted.

Steve stares at the fair-haired man shaking Wyndham’s hand, and Steve realizes he’s seen him more recently.

Steve digs through the week's papers and pulls out the story about the shooting, the attempted assassination of the Wakandan scientist and Congressman Xavier. And sure enough, Pym is one of the others who were in the car.

Pym. That name is familiar. Didn't Jan mention something about a Pym? Steve is sure that she did. She mentioned he had been at the restaurant—

With the other scientists who had been on the ship that sank.

It can't be a coincidence.

Steve is a boat tossed on stormy seas as he picks up the phone and dials the number for Tony's office. He hates that he's going to Tony with this information. But he knows Tony is the lesser of two evils here.

Tony doesn't pick up, though; it's Clint.

"I need to talk to Tony," Steve says.

"He's out."

"How soon will he be back?"

"I don't know. There's trouble down at the docks. He went looking into our stolen cargo."

"Where?"

Clint gives him an address, and Steve jots it down hastily.

"Why? What's going on?" Clint demands.

"I know who he's chasing. If Tony calls back, tell him it's Herbert Wyndham." From his notes, Steve is sure that Tony will recognize the name.

"Right—"

Clint doesn't get to finish. Steve hangs up on him, runs his fingers through his hair and wonders if Tony has a weapon stashed in his apartment. Currently Steve has none.

Then he gets another idea and starts dialing a different phone number. He’d prefer to avoid dragging someone new into this. But he doesn’t have many options. He hopes he can count on his old friend.

"Bucky?" Steve asks after he hears the scrape of someone picking up the phone. "Sorry to call so late. But I need some backup."

#

It's dark and Tony has to move slowly along the wharf. He's trying to be as quiet as possible and he lacks a flashlight, but even if he had one, he wouldn't dare draw attention to himself with it. The salt is acrid on his nose, and he can hear ship bells, the creak of the wood as ocean waves slosh against the shore. It seems like such a quiet night.

Shame that it's not likely to stay that way.

The dry dock is a solid piece of concrete that can be drained of seawater even though one side of it opens up onto the harbor. The _Columbia_ is a destroyer class ship, undergoing retrofitting before shipping out to patrol the Atlantic, a safeguard against the war across the sea.

Tony steals toward it, his footsteps a whisper, and crouches low near one of the crates. He recognizes the numbers stamped onto the side, the mark of the missing shipment, just like Clint said. Tony lifts the lid and sees dozen of the bottles inside, identical replicas of the one he saw in Duquesne's warehouse.

Tony grips the neck of one, looking up at the _Columbia,_ and then his gut instinct seizes him—a terrible certainty that this was a setup.

As if on cue, he hears a gun cock behind his head. Then a familiar, gravelly voice that he's known since he was a boy says, "Hands up where we can see them, Tony."

#

It's a punch in the gut, a knife to the heart.

"Obie, what the hell are you doing?" Tony asks, marching with the muzzle of the gun pressed to the small of his back. His hands are firmly planted on his head even though the first thing Obie did was frisk him and take his gun.

"Shut up, Tony," his godfather says.

"I know I wasn't on your good side," Tony quips, "but this seems a little extreme."

Obie herds him into the dry dock, a long walk in the shadow of the ship till they reach the edge. A tall figure stands silhouetted against the glow of Jersey City across the water, waiting for them. The tails of his coat sway in the soft breeze rippling through the corridor of cement and steel. He's standing in front of something long and thin like a telescope.

"So glad that we could finally meet," the man says in a posh British accent. In the glow of the city, Tony can make out short brown hair, an aquiline nose, and a sneer on thin lips. The frame is familiar, as is the red peacoat he's wearing. "Herbert Wyndham," he says with a mock bow, and Tony's eyes grow wide.

" _You're_ the doctor?" Nothing masks the incredulity in Tony's voice.

"You told me he was intelligent, Obadiah.” Wyndham sounds a bit offended. “I’m almost disappointed."

Obie shoves Tony to his knees. "He's got his father's senses. Sharp-eyed and keen about everything except for the things closest to him." He bends down, ruffles Tony's hair in a crude mockery of how he used to tousle it when Tony was a boy. Then he whispers in Tony's ear, "I thought the hit on Maria would ruin him. But I suppose it all worked out. Didn't it? It just made him work harder, and look where we are now."

Tony's stomach roils, remembering how slavishly his father devoted himself to business after his mother died.

"Imagine my luck, riding that wave to prosperity." Obie's breath is thick and rotten on Tony's ears. "But the time's come. I've waited long enough to take what's rightfully mine. And since your father still has it in mind that _you_ could succeed him, you're the first obstacle I’ll cross off my list."

"I understand why you're doing this, Obie," Tony says even though he really can't. He and Obie never saw eye to eye on business, but the man was still his _godfather._ "But you," he says, referring to Wyndham. "I still don't get what's in it for you."

He hears the scientist snort. "It's not what's at stake for me. It's what's at stake for all of us if soft-hearted idiots do away with the service the DRB provides in keeping our society sound. The esteemed Dr. Essex has it right. But he's a mouthpiece, trite and more concerned with money than he is in doing what's right. I _fix_ nature’s aberrations."

“By removing soulmate names?” Tony asks, confused.

“By making it so that a more desirable partner can take, yes. Of course, it’s harder with homosexuals. Very few successes there. With those sort, I usually opt for methods that prevent marks from coming back at all.

Tony jerks, lunging for Wyndham. The crack of the pistol’s grip against the back of his head is dizzying, and he falls back to his knees, though fury still burns inside him.

Wyndham seems amused by his outburst. “It’s kinder that way, and no different than what the DRB would do with offenders.”

"Funny," Tony hisses, thinking about the scars on Steve and the gray name. "I've seen your work. Doesn't seem like you fixed anything."

"Yes, well, not everything can be salvaged. Some things have to be eliminated."

"Like the DRB." Tony says spitefully, knowing it's the opposite of what Wyndham means. “So that what this has all been about?"

This time, Wyndham almost sounds amused. "It’s far more personal than that." He waves a darkened hand, motioning toward himself. "Let him see for himself, Obadiah."

Obie kicks him in the back, nearly sending Tony sprawling. He gets his hands out beneath him just in time to save himself the indignity of a face abraded by the rough concrete. Tony takes the hint and shambles over to the object that Wyndham is indicating.

It's not a telescope, Tony realizes. It's a sniper rifle. The weapon is trained on the veranda of a hotel across the water, and they're close enough that Tony can see people in evening wear stepping out for fresh air. Wyndham is going to take a shot at someone. _The scientists_ , Tony realizes as he catches sight of the Wakandan noble. Wyndham has been targeting them all along.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tony asks.

He sees teeth gleaming in the wicked grin on that darkened face. "The same thing your godfather wants: to even the playing field. I sympathize. I too know what it's like to have something snatched away by a lesser person. Henry Pym ruined my career, and now he’s setting out to ruin this country too. He and his friends have to be stopped. They’ve done enough damage to the eugenics movement."

"So the boats—"

"The first was for them, yes. The second was for your godfather’s.” So that explosion _had_ been meant to kill Tony. “The rest are convenient to us both." Wyndham waves a hand and the surrounding docks, and Tony realizes he means to destroy more tonight. "What will the family think about your father if he can’t keep Fisk from doing such damage in his territory? With cargo his own son couldn’t keep track of, no less. As for me, the sinking of a fleet of ships might just overshadow the news of a congressman and his pet scientist being shot.”

“And without them, the biggest opposition to the DRB is neatly swept under the rug," Tony supplies the rest.

Wyndham clucks his tongue. “So he does have some savvy after all.”

"I just need one more thing from you, Tony," Obie purrs. "The receipts from Drew’s safe. Where did you put them?"

Tony blinks, realizes that Obie must have planned this from the very beginning, must have used Steve as an excuse for extracting evidence at the Drews’.

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." Tony grits his teeth, very aware of the cold metal of Obie's gun pointed at him.

Wyndham kicks him hard in the stomach, and Tony doubles up, gasping for air.

"I'm not going to ask again, Tony."

Tony grits his teeth. It doesn't look like he has a way out of this. He spares a moment of regret for making Clint stay at the office. He could use someone beside him. But if he's going down, he's not doing it with his head bowed. "Then what are you waiting for?" Tony goads. "Shoot me."

Obie stays silent, but Wyndham laughs. "Shoot you? No, no." He crouches down and picks up something long and gleaming in the moonlight. The rasp of steel links against the concrete gives the chain away. "Obadiah's told me all about you. Aberrant things like you...you're little more than rats. Men don't shoot rats. They poison them—"

For a frightful moment, Tony wonders if Wyndham’s going to force a bottle of kerosene down his throat.

"—or they drown them," Wyndham says and begins to wrap the chain around Tony.

#

The night air is chilly, but Steve can't feel it. He's sweating, running as fast as he can, feet slapping against the pavement. He's raising a racket, but if he can intercept Tony first, it will be worth the risk of bringing the whole underworld down on his head.

He comes to the street that Clint gave him without seeing a trace of Tony, and Steve's gut roils with fear that he's too late. The gate to the docks is already open, creaking softly as it swings back and forth in the breeze. He plunges on, moving from shadow to shadow, heart racing.

When Steve finally catches sight of Tony, it's an awful sight. Tony is chained in cruciform to an anchor nearly as large as his body, and the piece of steel is balanced against the edge of the ship’s hull on its rounded base, precariously close to the edge of the dry dock. Tony's head droops, and his shoulders sag. The chain that threads between his arms and loops around each wrist looks like it's the only thing holding him up.

Not only has Wyndham caught him, but he has a friend. A familiar one. Steve is shocked to see Obadiah Stane and even more surprised to see him strike Tony. The blow is hard enough that the anchor rocks on its curve ominously.

He hears Tony's voice, wavering, but defiant. "I thought you weren't gonna ask again." Stane hits him again, and it's clear Tony's gotten under his collar. He puffs on the cigarette in his mouth a few times before ripping the collar of Tony's shirt and pressing the lit end into the delicate flesh beneath his collar bone. Tony writhes and hisses as Stane gloats, "How's the heart holding up, Tony? Don't move too much, boy, you might tip over before we're done here."

"Hush," Wyndham says, peering through a scope. He holds up a hand, then gracefully slides it down to the trigger. "I can see them."

Steve doesn't know who the man is talking about. He doesn't care. He wishes he had a gun, but he doesn't, so he slides his hand into the crate, grabs one of the bottles inside, and throws it as hard as he can at Wyndham.

Glass breaks and Steve smells paraffin. He hears Wyndham shriek. And Stane, in his confusion, fumbles the cigarette.

In an instant, the kerosene goes up in flames. Heavy steel creaks, and he can hear something large splash beneath the water.

_Tony..._

No.

Bullets fly in reactionary spray. They making hollow thunks as they hit the crate that Steve is sheltering behind. He hears even more bullets ricochet off the steel of the ship's hull. For a moment he's terrified, heart in his throat, reliving the day he and Barton were ambushed in the truck. But he can't dwell on that. Not if he's going to do anything in the here and now. Steve huddles, feeling heat and adrenaline course over him. He shields his head, desperately trying to think of a next move and coming up blank.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to.

Returning fire whistles over his head, and he hears a wet groan from Stane as a bullet strikes home.

Steve looks up over his arm and sees Bucky with his firearm drawn, Castle at his heels.

Steve doesn't stop to wonder at the two of them together. If there's a later, he can ask then. For now, he'll take whatever backup is offered. With Stane down, Steve gets to his feet, hesitates for half a moment at the flames still consuming the last bits of the kerosene, and plunges through them, down into the water, following the chain.

In one respect, they are lucky. The length of chain hasn't been fully let out. Tony and the anchor haven't made it to the bottom. But as Steve's hands search over Tony, trying to find a way to let him free, his hands fall on a padlock.

He doesn't know how much air Tony has, doesn't know how long he has. Steve forces his hands to be calm and steady as he grabs the bobby pins from his pocket, already shaped from letting himself into Tony's apartment earlier that evening. It is the single hardest job he's ever had. Underwater, practically pitch black, working by feel alone, with the clock against him.

_How often did you do this for Jan?_ he reminds himself, setting one of the tumblers and moving onto the next. _Padlocks were the first thing you learned to pick._ He finds the sweet spot of the next two in rapid succession. _Please don't let me be too late,_ he prays as he finds the last one and wrenches the lock open, loosening the chains so that he can free Tony's wrists.

Tony isn't moving. Steve pulls him close with one arm and kicks, propelling them upward.

"Help!" he shouts, nearly taking in a lungful of water. In the dwindling flames, he sees Bucky shrug out of his coat and dive in, clothes and all. Together they manage to get Tony back to a part of the dock that isn't on fire. As Steve fights to keep Tony's head above water, he sees Castle circling around with an arm over his mouth and nose, and when he reaches where they've swam, he helps pull them up.

_Please be alive,_ Steve thinks wildly. He pinches Tony's nose, blows a breath into his mouth and pumps Tony's chest. No doubt he's adding to the bruises. He hopes he's not making things worse. He remembers what Tony said about having a rotten heart.

_Please, Tony,_ he thinks wildly, _wake up!_

Steve trembles with relief when—what feels like an eternity later—Tony coughs and gasps, ugly sucking sounds that are nonetheless music to Steve's ears. Tony looks up at him from beneath wet, black lashes, and rasps, "Thought you left."

Steve smiles at him. "I did. Changed my mind."

They're both shivering and drenched, but the look on Tony's face is full of such warmth that Steve can almost ignore how chilly he is.

Then Tony looks perplexed. "Castle? What are _you_ doing here?"

Castle sniffs. He may not be trying to actively kill Tony, but it's clear he still doesn't care for him. "Barnes called me in." He fishes inside his jacket and pulls a badge out.

Tony blinks at it. "All this time?"

Castle shrugs. "Brass higher up got tired of your hand in our pocket, figured we might as well return the favor. Someone had to go in and get their hands dirty, and I was all too happy to do it if it meant locking people like you up." He looks at Bucky expectantly.

"Then what were you so interested in the shipment for?" Steve asks.

"He was supposed to pass part of the shipment on to me as evidence," says Bucky.

Well, that certainly explains part of it.

"I got a tip-off from the supplier that Stane was going to move more than just bottles." He nods at the dry dock. "The rifle."

"And the ammo," Steve says, realization sinking in.

"Yeah.," Castle shakes his head. "But he got wind of a leak."

Tony closes his eyes. "That must be why he hired the Williams and Robbins."

"So how does the other guy figure in?" Castle jerks his thumb at the flickering flames still licking at the dry dock.

"I _could_ explain everything—" Tony says hastily because he can finally see the whole puzzle. Only he may not be _able_ to. "But I'm under a gag order." Even saying that might be too much.

Bucky frowns, wringing water out of his shirt. "With who?"

"A division of the Office of Naval Intelligence," Tony says, and Steve stares at him. One more secret revealed. He should be used to it by now, but he's still taken back that there could be even more that Tony has been hiding. "Call them, ask for Colonel Fury of SHIELD. Tell him he owes me _big time_."

#

"Well, look at who isn't behind bars," Tony says with a smile from the hospital bed. He grins as Steve comes in in nothing but a T-shirt and olive slacks, a bandage on his right wrist, and a folder under one arm. Steve sets the paperwork down on a chair and draws close to the side of the bed.

"No, Colonel Fury decided after meeting me that pinstripes weren't really my thing. What do you think?"

"I think it's a good look on you, Mr. John Doe. Where's he sending you?"

"Austria, with the Fighting 69th." Steve rubs at the bandage on his wrist absently.

"Did it hurt?"

"No. Not like the things that Wyndham did." Tony knows that beneath the bandage, the pale, scarred skin will be blank now. He wonders if a mark will ever be able to come back. He told Steve about Wyndham’s preferred methods. Steve hadn’t known. Tony suspects none of his patients did.

If Tony ever gets the chance to see it, he thinks it will be a strange experience to see the name gone.

But that is a big _if._ Tension abroad is only getting worse. And before he ships out, Steve will no doubt disappear behind the walls of a camp for training.

"I guess you finally got what you were looking for. No more DRB." Tony feigns his best smile, but the congratulations—the _I'm happy for you_ —dies on his lips as he thinks of Steve going off to war. He can't bring himself to be happy at the prospect of seeing Steve go.

He's done enough lying for one lifetime.

Steve grins. "Yeah, I guess so." He cocks his head to one side. "What will you do, Tony?"

Tony raises his left wrist a few inches, painful as it is. The handcuff that ties him to the hospital bed clinks. "Well, assuming that they decide to let me out of here..." He raises his eyebrows at Steve as if to also say, _Or assuming that you do_.

"Tony..."

Tony sighs.

"I agreed to the terms this morning. They were just drawing up the paperwork."

Steve blinks, like he doesn't really believe what he's hearing. "You did?"

"Officially _four_ bodies were found on the dry dock." Tony looks at the hospital band on his wrist, proclaiming him as another John Doe. Family has been a constant in his life; it is strange to think of leaving it all behind even though there will never be a better opportunity. "Amnesty and a new identity, or rotting in a prison cell...tough choice."

"Was it really?" Steve asks.

Tony swallows and looks up into Steve's bright blue eyes.

It should have been easy, especially after that phone call from his father.

But in the end it was more about Obie. And even then, no—it still wasn't easy. How could it be? Knowing how little he meant to two of the most important people in his life will never be easy for Tony to accept. He doesn't say that though. Instead he sighs.

It would have at least been _easier_ if there was the chance Steve would stay—assuming he would take Tony back after he buried his family name.

"I think you were right about me," Tony says instead of answering his question.

Something pained flickers on Steve's face. "Tony, I didn't realize you were working for the government. If I had—"

"It wouldn't have made any difference; you would have still been miserable.”

"You wouldn't have been alone though."

"Well," Tony says, a touch of humor leaching into his words, "at the end, I wasn't."

_You came for me_ , he wants to say, but doesn't think he could bear it if Steve's gaze turned to pity. And then, because Tony wants to shift the conversation to something else, he asks, "What's in the file?"

Steve jolts, like he's forgotten it. "Fury said it was for you. I have a feeling I know what it is now."

A smile twitches at Tony's lips.

So here they are, at a new crossroads. Steve will be shipped off to Europe, and Tony...who knows where Tony will land. With Fury's proclivities, he thinks it's quite possible it will be the most hellish place on Earth. A boring farming town in the middle-of-nowhere Kansas, acres of land to care for out in the desert of New Mexico...

Tony tears open the seal on the packet and slides the crisp white papers out, brow furrowing as he reads.

"Where are they sending you?" Steve prods, worried after several minutes of silence.

"To Austria," he says, like he doesn't believe it. "With the 69th. Seems they need a mechanic."

The grin on Steve's face is mesmerizing. From the moment Tony looks up and sees it, he tries to memorize it. He resolves, quietly, that it won't be the last time he sees such wholehearted joy on Steve's face.

"So, who is the handsome young specimen that I have the pleasure of meeting today?" Tony asks, letting his eyes rove over Steve.

"Grant Jones," Steve says.

Tony pulls a face. "That is a terrible name."

Steve raises one eyebrow, sly, and holds out his hand as if to shake. Tony is angled all wrong for it, but he lifts his right hand and takes Steve's.

"Arno Carbonell," Tony says. "Pleasure to meet you, _Grant_."

"Arno..." Steve ponders. "Sounds a lot like Arnie."

"Maybe it's no coincidence," Tony says, a twinkle in his eye.

"Maybe not," Steve agrees, raising his hand and kissing it.

#

It's been a typical Friday evening, hectic, too many tables, not enough hands. Outside, the wind is blowing hard and Jan is looking forward to sinking into a nice warm bath. Just a few more hours, assuming of course that she can pry her locker open. Without Steve around to finesse it open, the lock sticks more often. She's going to finally have to break down and buy another.

And yet somehow that seems like defeat—admitting that Steve isn't coming back.

It would have been better if they'd never seen him again after that last shift. At least if Steve had never come in with that haunted look on his face, they could have assumed the best. They could have joked that he'd won the lottery.

Jan has thought about the stubborn, big-hearted blond often since he came in to tell them he wasn't coming back. She still worries about him.

She twists the dial on the lock and pulls at it for what feels like the millionth time, but it stays stubbornly shut and she loses her temper, banging it against the metal door. Unfortunately, she bangs her hand into the locker door too. The butt of her palm smarts, and she lets out a soft _"Ouch!"_

"Uh, Jan?" One of the new guys looks nervous, like he's done something wrong.

She forces a polite smile even though she's irritated and just wants to go _home_. "There's a guy who was asking if you were in today. Said he only wanted coffee, but by the time I got back to the table he was gone. He left this."

He holds up a small envelope.

Jan takes it, confused. Inside is a note and a nickel. A buffalo nickel.

The note isn't signed, but with all the orders that get put in day in and day out, she's seen the handwriting countless times before.

"Luke," she says, sliding the slip of paper with tidy lettering across the bar. Because if there's anyone who's more familiar with the wait staff's handwriting, it's Luke. "Tell me I'm not crazy. This is Steve's handwriting, right?"

"Son of a—" Luke flips the paper over like he's looking for more. "He was here? He left this?"

"I don't know," Jan says and turns to the new kid. "The guy who left this. Tall and blond? Too polite for his own good?"

The boy shakes his head. "He was about my height, had dark hair and a goatee."

Jan pushes past him, running to the front door. The wind whips about her as she leans out, scanning the street. But she's too late; they're gone like ghosts.

She unfolds the letter and reads it again. The buffalo nickel in her other hand is a warm, solid weight.

_Seems you knew what you were doing,_ the note reads. _One day I hope I can come back and tell you in person. Until then, thank you._


End file.
